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THE FAIR PLAY SERIES 
BY LAWRENCE PERRY 


THE FULLBACK SI. 35 

THE BIG GAME SI. 35 

Each volume umo. Illustrated 


CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 

PUBLISHERS 


THE BIG GAME 



Tom, summoning all his grit, gripped the ball and drove it 

straight for the plate. [Page 36.] 


The Big Game 


BY 

LAWRENCE PERRY 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
NEW YORK :::::::::: 1918 






Copyright, igi8, by 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 


Published September, 1918 


Ci.A503S56 

-V ' ' 1 1 ! ' 



/' 3 $ 



THIS BOOK IS 

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO 


“SONNY” RANDALL 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER p AGE 

I. Tom Umpires a Game i 

II. Back at Haledon 13 

III. Tom Pitches Against the Giants . 24 

IV. A Bad Arm 38 

V. Out for the Crew 53 

VI. The Journey to Franklin . . 66 

VII. Tom Rows at Number Six ... 81 

VIII. Athlete-Hunting 96 

IX. A Little Light on Professionalism . 111 

X. Tom Gains an Ally 124 

XI. Tom Returns to the Box . . . 140 

XII. Fire! 155 

XIII. A Pitchers’ Battle 174 

XIV. Another Football Season . . . 189 

XV. A Stand Against Professionalism . 205 

XVI. A Revolution on the Eleven . . 221 

XVII. The Big Game 234 

XVIII. The Biggest Game 256 











/ 
































ILLUSTRATIONS 


Tom, summoning all his grit, gripped the ball and 

drove it straight for the plate . . . Frontispiece 


/ 


FACING PAGE 

“ Look here, Tom,” he said, “ what’s this I hear 

about your rowing in the second varsity crew?” 60 y' 


“The condition under which he was to go to Haledon 
was that he receive eight hundred dollars for 
employment” 


116 


»/ 


“I’ve never taken a cent for nothing from anybody. 
And I’m not going to” 


146 





THE BIG GAME 


CHAPTER I 

Tom Umpires a Game 

“^THHREE cheers for Tom Kerry!” 

JL The train from Columbus had not yet 
come to a halt at the Annandale station when 
this cry, accompanied by a scattering volley of 
cheers, floated into one of the cars and brought 
a vivid flush to the cheek of a youth of nineteen 
who was making his way down the aisle, suit- 
case in hand. With attention thus drawn to 
him the passengers saw a broad-shouldered young 
fellow, lithe and quick in his walk, who with his 
one hundred and eighty pounds of weight and 
his height of nearly six feet would have expressed 
even to the casual observer the beau-ideal of a 
college athlete. His head was of the classic type 
— square lines, a fine, straight nose, level gray 
eyes, and close-cropped, crinkly blond hair. 

"Torn Kerry! Yeaa ! Yeaaa!” 

Tom looked at the crowded mass of boys and 
young men on the station platform, and a sort 


The Big Game 

of mist came to his eyes. Three years ago he 
was one of them. Now he was one of the talked- 
of college athletes of the country, a crack full- 
back at Haledon, in the East, and a first-string 
pitcher on the varsity nine. He had injured a 
muscle of his arm in pitching on the early spring 
training-trip of the Haledon nine, and had been 
ordered to rest pending development of the in- 
jury. It was thus he had been able to leave col- 
lege for his home in Annandale to spend the Easter 
vacation. 

Tom was a diffident chap, and this uproarious 
welcome to his boyhood home was not at all to 
his liking; but here it was and he had to make 
the best of it. 

“ Hello, fellows !” he said, and proceeded to 
shake hands with all who were able to crowd 
within reaching distance. One of these was his 
father, Timothy Kerry, who kept a stationery- 
store and news-depot, and was quite the dearest 
person in the world to this stalwart boy. 

“ Father !” Tom shouldered several persons 
aside and seized the little man by the shoulders. 
“Say, it’s good to see you, dad! What did you 
let them get this up for?” 

“Hello, Tom, boy!” Mr. Kerry was grinning 
from ear to ear. “I couldn’t help it. As soon as 


Tom Umpires a Game 

they heard you were coming every kid in the 
town was by the ears. You’ll have to talk to 
them, and then as soon as you can get away I 
want you to see the new addition to my store. 
Business has been booming, Tommy.” 

“Good!” Tom, anxious to see the store, to 
go to his home, and, in fact, to have his father 
very much to himself, turned to one of the boys, 
a husky, freckle-faced youth who was pressing 
close. 

“Well, if this isn’t Jack White ! My, you’re 
a husk! When I last saw you, Jack, you were 
nothing but a kid.” 

“Oh, I’ve grown!” grinned Jack. “I’m cap- 
tain of the high-school team now — your old job.” 

“Good for you!” Tom slapped him on the 
back. 

“What we want is this,” went on White. “We 
are going to play the Pulver Military Academy 
team this afternoon in the first of the season’s 
series. They’ve beaten us every year since you 
pitched, but this season we think we can turn 
the tables. Will you umpire ? That’s what we 
want to know.” 

“Pulver, eh?/’ Tom was smiling reminiscently. 
“You bet I’ll umpire.” In the midst of the ex- 
pressions of general satisfaction over this an- 
3 


The Big Game 

nouncement Tom seized his father by the arm, 
and the two made their way down to the street 
to his father’s store where you may be sure the 
boy was delighted with evidence of the man’s in- 
creasing prosperity. 

“Annandale is certainly growing since the 
farmers began to use it as a shipping-point,” 
said Tom, “and the time will come when it will 
be a city.” 

Squire Middleton, the great man of the city, 
father of Hal Middleton, Tom’s classmate, and 
of Louise Middleton, a student at Vassar, whom 
Tom had many reasons for holding in highest 
regard, dropped into the store before Tom had 
concluded his inspection. 

“Well, boy,” beamed the squire, “I’m cer- 
tainly glad to see you in town. How is Hal?” 

“Oh, he’s fine !” Tom exclaimed. “He’s study- 
ing hard and he’s alternating as regular catcher 
on the nine, as of course you have seen in the 
papers. Hal is all right in every way.” 

“Good!” Squire Middleton paused. “I had 
expected Louise back for the Easter recess, but 
she wrote that she had decided to pass the time 
in New York with a crowd of classmates. Too 
bad !” 

“Yes, it is.” Tom was frank by nature, and 
4 


Tom Umpires a Game 

having heard from Hal that Louise was going 
to be in Annandale he had counted on seeing 
her. That was not the reason he had returned 
to his home himself — but it was one of the reasons. 
However, there was plenty to do and to think 
about. 

He and his father spent the greater part of 
the morning talking, and then there was the long- 
expected visit to the little vine-clad cottage where 
Tom had been born and which in the far-off East 
he had looked back to as a shrine of memory — 
for his mother, who had passed on, and for his 
living father. 

“ Aren’t you glad, Tom, that you didn’t accept 
those offers from Cokedale and other places to 
capitalize your athletic ability?” asked the prin- 
cipal of the school, an old Haledon man, whom 
Tom met in the afternoon on his way to the base- 
ball-field to umpire the game. 

“Yes,” Tom replied gloomily, “I am glad; 
and Enoch Chase, who saved me from doing it 
and who got me to go to Haledon — I dropped in 
at his office in Columbus — says that what I did 
has had a lot of influence.” 

“I’m sure it has,” replied the principal. 

“At the same time,” Tom went on, “I wish 
the influence had been greater. You haven’t 
5 


The Big Game 

any idea how the East, and perhaps the West, 
although, of course, I don’t know about that, is 
honeycombed with commercialism. Last year, 
for instance, Sacred Heart, a small college in 
New England, came down with a team and beat 
us. Three of the rich alumni had got hold of a 
crack pitcher in a Southern college and had made 
it worth while for him to pitch for Sacred Heart. 
That looked so good that early this season when 
the team came down to play us they had a crowd 
that played like professionals.” 

“And they beat you?” asked the principal. 

“Well, no, Mr. Topham,” stammered Tom. 
“It seems they couldn’t hit my pitching. But 
I tell you this,” he went on; “it’s a rotten cus- 
tom. I had a chance to go through college on 
velvet in exchange for playing baseball and foot- 
ball, and I didn’t. Neither will any fellow who 
values his future and knows what true manhood 
and good sportsmanship are.” 

“Of course not,” agreed Mr. Topham, who held 
a secret pride in the fact that it was he who had 
first begun the work of moulding Tom to be the 
man he was proving himself to be. 

“And I tell you this,” Tom went on; if I ever 
get a good chance I’ll put a big spike in this prac- 
tice. They say the facts are difficult to prove, 
6 


Tom Umpires a Game 

and I guess they are. But some day, when I get 
the time — now or after graduation — Fm going 
after things.” 

“Good for you !” Mr. Topham frowned. “But 
you had better be careful — you might have to 
hit your own college.” 

“All right.” Tom shrugged, not realizing how 
prophetic were Mr. Topham’s words. 

The scenes about the Annandale baseball-field 
were so stirring in their reminder to Tom of the 
old days that he speedily forgot all about the 
evils of college athletics. Pulver Military Acad- 
emy was a crack Middle Western school which 
for many years had been a successful rival of all 
sorts of teams turned out by the Annandale High 
School. As a matter of fact, the Pulver boys 
regarded the high-school team as sort of a local 
issue, Pulver being only eight miles away, and 
games between the two, while attended by high 
rivalry, did not count in the State interscholastic 
series in football, baseball, and track. 

None the less, some two hundred students of 
the military academy had come over to root for 
their team, while the entire population of Annan- 
dale was, of course, on hand. The Pulver boys 
were not too proud to be extremely interested in 
the great Tom Kerry, who had deigned to umpire 
7 


The Big Game 

this game, and the villagers of course were in a 
flutter about them. 

At the special request of the Pulver manager 
Tom batted flies to the academy outfielders in 
their warming-up practice, and of course he could 
do no less for Annandale when her turn came to 
practise. 

When he called the game there were at least 
three thousand spectators about the field, and 
an outlying fringe of farmers’ wagons and motor- 
cars — in all a scene so familiar that Tom had to 
rub his eyes before he realized that he was not 
again an Annandale student, waiting to take his 
place in the box against the old enemy. 

His decisions were prompt and impartially 
accurate. As a matter of fact, there was no great 
tenseness, because the Annandale team, which 
was the best team they had ever seen, was banging 
the ball all over the lot, and the villagers were 
chortling in their enthusiasm. 

It was at the end of the seventh inning that 
the Annandale pitcher, Jack White, turned to 
Tom, who was umpiring behind the box. 

“I think, since the score is eight to one, that 
Fll let Ted Harris go in and finish the game. He’s 
our only substitute pitcher and I want to see 
how good he is.” 


8 


Tom Umpires a Game 

“Well,” smiled Tom, “no game is won, you 
know, until the last man’s out. But, of course, 
do as you like.” 

This caused Jack to hesitate, and it was not 
until the visitors came in to bat in their half of 
the ninth inning that he sent Harris into the box. 
Seeing the chance, the Pulver rooters, who had 
a tradition for never ceasing to root when there 
was any chance at all of victory, stood up and 
woke the echoes. Harris looked furtive, and the 
Pulver players seeing it and hoping to rattle him 
shook their bats in his direction, while the coachers 
proclaimed the dire things that were about to 
befall him. 

And, as a matter of fact, things did happen. 
It is one of the beautiful things about baseball 
that anything can happen at any time. It matters 
not how far a team may be behind; nothing 
matters. While there is life there is hope. 

The first boy to face Harris was the Pulver 
catcher, Thorne, who had a reputation as a slugger. 
Harris sent up a ball that looked as big as a pump- 
kin. Thorne took a toe-hold and landed upon 
the ball with a reverberating blow. It went past 
Annandale’s centre-fielder, who was a swift runner. 
He caught up with the sphere just as Thorne 
rounding third and threw the ball home. 
9 


was 


The Big Game 

The runner stumbled in making the turn and 
should have returned to third; instead he kept 
on for the plate and was put out. 

Then up came Hall, who hit a long liner which 
the left-fielder misjudged, the result being that 
Hall reposed on third before the ball was fielded 
in. This player, exalted by his success, took a 
long lead off third and the Annandale catcher, 
who was good at throwing, snapped the ball down 
to the third-baseman, and Hall was caught so 
flat-footed that Pulver didn’t even protest Tom’s 
decision that the man was out. 

“Two three-baggers and yet two outs,” smiled 
Tom at Harris. “ If I had your luck, boy, I’d join 
the Giants.” 

But more was yet to come. Harris, in des- 
peration, threw a straight ball at the next batter, 
Kearney, who drove the ball far to the outfield. 

“My word!” laughed Tom. “Another three- 
bagger!” 

Annandale had no other pitcher to put in, and 
so Harris had to take his medicine. There were 
two out, as will be recalled, and a man on third. 
The man at the bat, Thomas, sent an easy roller 
along the third-base line, and Annandale’s rooters 
sent up a cheer. But the Annandale third-base- 
man thought it was going to roll foul and let the 
ball slip past him on its lazy course. It didn’t 


io 


Tom Umpires a Game 

roll foul and the runner, who could sprint like 
Ty Cobb, was well on his way to second before 
the ball was recovered. 

“Three three-baggers and a double — and no 
runs! Good heavens!” Tom stared curiously 
at the Annandale pitcher. Was ever there a boy 
so lucky ? 

The next batter, Arbold, bunted unintentionally 
along the first-base line. The Annandale pitcher 
and first-baseman collided in their rush for the 
ball and the man reached first. 

With men on first, second, and third, and 
two outs, Sam Day, the Pulver captain, swung 
at the first ball pitched. There was a sharp crack 
and the horsehide sped across the diamond like 
a streak of lightning. 

But unfortunately it struck the boy running 
from first to second. 

“Runner’s out,” called Tom, laughing heartily 
and staring in amazement at a team which could 
make three triples, one double, and two singles 
in one inning and not score a run. 

“Out!” cried the Pulver captain. 

“Of course,” said Tom. “The runner was 
hit by a batted ball. He’s out, of course. Don’t 
you know the rules ?” 

“That’s right!” exclaimed the discomfited 
captain, waving his men toward the dressing- 


ii 


The Big Game 

room. “But,” he added, “does that batter who 
hit the man get the credit of a hit ? I want to 
know, because I’m keeping the records.” 

“He certainly does,” laughed Tom. “Your 
team made three three-baggers, a double, and 
two singles in this inning. And you didn’t get 
a run.” 

“I didn’t know it could be done,” sighed the 
Pulver leader. 

“Neither did I.” Tom turned and walked 
toward the snake-dancing crowd of Annandale 
enthusiasts. 

In the remaining days of his brief vacation 
Tom spent a great deal of his time with his father, 
but did not fail to call on Mr. Arkwright, cashier 
of the bank which Tom had once saved from a 
great money loss by downing a bank-burglar 
with a baseball; nor did he miss a visit to the 
river, now beginning to glimmer in the warm 
light of the spring sun, nor to many other haunts 
which he had known in the days before he went 
to Haledon. Everything was very much the 
same, and when he took the train for the East 
he was refreshed in spirit and, moreover, felt 
that his arm, concerning which grave fears had 
been entertained, was coming back into shape. 

12 


CHAPTER II 
Back at Haledon 

T OM arrived at Haledon late at night, and 
brilliant sunlight awakened him next 
morning long before it was time for the tolling 
of the chapel-bell. It was a beautiful morning 
in April, and after a cheery hail into the other 
bedroom of the suite — occupied by a studious 
youth from Vermont — Tom slipped on his bath- 
robe and ran down-stairs to the shower. When 
he returned, tingling with his bath, he sat look- 
ing down upon the campus from his window, 
thinking of the changes since he had first entered 
the classic precincts as a freshman. He had come 
with only a little money, and yet, by dint of hard 
work, of organizing various business industries, 
and tutoring dull students, he had earned for him- 
self a satisfactory income and now knew he would 
go through college with flying colors. At the 
same time he had established a standing in his 
class work, and had obtained a large share of 
desired success as an athlete. Not a bad showing, 
he thought, for an unknown Western boy, who 
had to make his own way. As he sat thus think- 


The Big Game 

ing, and watching the delicate tracery of new 
foliage on the giant elms, the chapel-bell rang its 
pleasant summons to worship. 

Tom arose and joined the vanguard of the 
long line of students trooping across the campus. 
Some were fully dressed and ready for the day. 
Others had plunged from their beds at the first 
bell-note, donning such clothes as they could 
find. Still others, even more lightly clad, would 
sneak into the pews at the very last moment; 
while lastly there were some sluggish, careless 
boys whose absence would add still another cut 
to their already dangerously large list. 

As for Tom, he liked the morning service. Here 
he could sit quietly, preparing himself mentally 
for the work of the day. But this morning, it 
must be confessed, his thoughts were wandering. 
Two days hence the nine would journey to the 
Polo Grounds for a game against the Giants, and 
he had been informed by the coach that he would 
pitch, if his arm were absolutely in perfect shape, 
but not otherwise. Hence Mangin’s instructions 
to visit Doctor Terry and have the valuable 
member examined. The pitcher’s thoughts, as 
a consequence, were casting ahead to the physi- 
cian’s headquarters in the gymnasium, a sanctum 
where decisions were based solely upon science 
14 


Back at Haledon 


and were final and inexorable. What if Terry 
should shake his head and say that Tom could 
not pitch any more ? The thought was disturb- 
ing. It took his mind completely from the service, 
and when the president had dismissed the students 
with his benediction he arose as one in a dream 
and followed sombrely in the wake of those who 
were bound to great Commons Hall for break- 
fast. 

When he went to the doctor’s office, between 
his first and second lecture of the morning ses- 
sion, he found McAllister, the trainer, seated 
beside the physician’s desk. 

“All right, Tom,” he said; “I’ve been telling 
Doctor Terry about you, but I guess you’d better 
tell him yourself.” 

The eye-glasses of the man of medicine glit- 
tered professionally in Tom’s direction. He had 
been a pitcher himself in his college days and, 
in fact, behind his grim professional demeanor 
he had a hearty sympathy with and deep under- 
standing of athletes. 

“Well, let’s see what’s the matter, Kerry. Take 
off your coat.” He placed his hand upon the 
boy’s shoulder. “Now go through the motion 
of pitching and tell me where it hurts.” Tom 
obeyed and then smiled at the man. 

15 


The Big Game 

“It doesn’t hurt at all now,” he smiled. “In 
fact I felt it only in the last inning of the George- 
town game — a sort of a sharp pain right here.” 
He indicated the place with a finger of his left 
hand. 

“I see.” The doctor, however, pressed and 
manipulated Tom’s arm, beginning at the wrist 
and working gradually up the arm to the shoul- 
der. Suddenly, as his powerful fingers sank into 
the flesh near the top of the shoulder, Tom 
winced. 

“Aha!” Doctor Terry grimaced. “So that’s 
it, eh?” He pressed again and this time Tom 
had all he could do to prevent an exclamation. 
“All right.” The physician pushed Tom slightly, 
as though indicating that the examination was 
at an end, and seated himself at his desk. “You 
hurt your shoulder playing football last fall, didn’t 
you, Kerry ? ” he asked. 

“Yes,” admitted Tom. “Not badly, though. 
The team physician said I’d chipped a little piece 
of bone off that shoulder.” 

“I see.” Doctor Terry nodded. “Well, there’s 
nothing the matter with any tendon or muscle 
involved in throwing. That football injury crops 
out and gives you pain when you throw. Just 
at present there’s no reason why you shouldn’t 
16 


Back at Haledon 


pitch — that is, if you’re willing to stand an oc- 
casional twinge.” He paused, adding at length: 
“But if it bothers you a great deal you must tell 
me, because it’ll mean you’ll have to give up 
pitching this season — that is, if you have any 
ambition to do any pitching in your upper-class 
years.” He leaned back in his chair and picked 
up a pile of reports. “You might massage it 
gently every day, Mac.” He nodded his dis- 
missal and gave attention to his papers. 

That afternoon at practice the warm sunlight 
filled Tom with mighty ambition, and with Slade 
again receiving he found no difficulty with his 
arm. He pitched five innings against the second 
team and was sent to the shower-bath, his grin 
of satisfaction reflecting that of the coach. 

On the following Wednesday the team caught 
a late morning train for New York, eager for 
their experience against a crack nine of the Na- 
tional League. The Giants were making ready 
to open the League season, and the newspapers 
which the Haledon players secured at the station 
were filled with accounts of the arrival of McGraw 
and his men from the training-camp at Texas. 
The pennant outlook was discussed, the appear- 
ance of the men commented upon, while inter- 
views with the leading players received appropriate 
17 


The Big Game 

display. In nearly all the journals, tucked at the 
end of the articles, was the bare comment that 
the pent-up enthusiasm of the fans would have 
opportunity for expression this afternoon when 
the team took the field against Haledon. 

“Humph!” said Maher. “Any one would 
think that Haledon didn’t have about five thou- 
sand alumni in New York. By George, I’d love 
to put one over on them. The ’94 team did it.” 

“Yes,” said Lansing, “and last year Shel- 
burne beat the Phillies.” He glanced at Kerry. 
“How’s your wing, Tom ?” 

The pitcher, who was absorbed in the Star , 
turned to Maher with a grin. 

“Here’s a good one, Tom,” he said. “This 
chap says that McGraw will play his first-string 
men for a few innings and then try out rookies. 
Sort of a picnic, eh?” 

“Well, if you can beat the bush-leaguers you’ll 
be doing as much as I’ll ask of you,” said Mangin. 
“But don’t let the newspapers get your goat. 
If you win they’ll hand it to you and if you lose 
they’ll say it’s only what they expected — so you 
don’t stand to lose anything at all. Keep that 
in mind; everything that comes to you is yours.” 

After luncheon at an up-town hotel the squad 
of some twenty men piled into automobiles, pro- 
18 


Back at Haledon 


vided by alumni in the city, and were driven to 
the vast arena which for many years has been 
the Mecca of baseball enthusiasts of the metrop- 
olis. The club secretary met them at the players* 
entrance, and ushered them into the dressing- 
room for visitors. Mangin alone was talkative; 
upon the others a strange silence had fallen. For 
it was one thing to talk of meeting one of the 
great baseball aggregations of the country, and 
another actually to go out on the field and op- 
pose them. Five of the team had already had 
early-season experience against big-leaguers, but 
Tom and three of his comrades were sophomores, 
playing their first season on a varsity nine. 

“I wonder who’ll pitch for them?” said Ran- 
some, breaking a long silence. 

“Oh,” said Maher, “I suppose they’ll give a 
lot of them a chance — depends upon how the 
game goes.” 

“Well, they can’t come too many for me,” 
returned Ransome, the slugger; “I may not be 
able to touch them; I couldn’t last year. But 
I think I’ve learned a thing or two since then — 
thanks to Jack Mangin.” He sighed, thereby 
discounting his brave words. 

Tom, who had donned his uniform, was walk- 
ing to the door, pulling his sweater over his head, 
19 


The Big Game 

when a great figure in the uniform of the Giants 
blocked the doorway. He grinned jovially and 
thrust out a brown, sinewy hand. 

“ Hello, there, Kerry boy! How’s everything 
going?” 

Tom stepped back surprisedly and then, with 
an exclamation, reached out his hand and clasped 
the sturdy palm. 

“ Hello, Mr. Saunders! I’m mighty glad to 
see you.” In the late football season Saunders — 
against whom Tom had pitched in the West when 
he was a high-school student — had saved the 
athlete from being declared ineligible. The charge 
had been that Tom was a professional, having 
received money for pitching the game. Saunders, 
who had become a member of the Giants, hearing 
of the incident, journeyed down to Haledon and 
proved to the satisfaction of the college authori- 
ties that the boy had refused to accept even his 
car-fare for participating in the contest. As a 
consequence Kerry had a warm regard for the 
professional. 

“Fellows,” he said, “this is Rube Saunders, 
of the Giants. I guess you’ve all heard of 
him.” 

“I guess they have,” grinned the player, who 
was now rated among the four leading batsmen 


20 


Back at Haledon 

in the professional game. “Going to work to- 
day, Tom ?” 

“Hello, Rube!” Mangin, who had been out- 
side, entered at the moment. “I guess Tom’ll 
work a little while. It depends on how he looks 
when we get outside. Anyway, we’ve got another 
baby doll here — Cartwright — who’ll give you 
trouble.” 

“Still throwin’ the bull, eh, Jack?” grinned 
the professional. “Well, the last time I per- 
formed against Kerry here — when I was on the 
Columbus team — he fanned me. He’ll have an- 
other chance to-day. Which reminds me, Tom — 
I came in here to talk to you.” He drew the boy 
to one side, talking in a low voice. 

“Look here, kid!” he muttered; “you ain’t 
the sort to get a big head; I’ve told you what I 
think of you. Now, you go out there on the 
mound and don’t you bat an eye. You’ve got 
it, see? Don’t let them kid you up in the air. 
They’re all a great bunch of kidders — specially 
McGraw. But he won’t bother you — not much, 
that is. Because, you see, he’s heard about you 
and wants to see all you’ve got. Don’t try to 
come back at them; just keep workin’, and — 
take it from me — you’ll open their eyes. But 
listen: don’t throw an out curve so that it’ll break 


21 


The Big Game 

over the plate on the third strike. All the col- 
lege guys do that, and the boys wait for it. Don't 
you do it; just give 'em that hop ball of yours 
and let 'em hit it if they can; you can't outguess 
em. 

The collegian was tempted to remind Saunders 
that he had outguessed him the day Tom pitched 
for Blainesville against Columbus, but he did 
not wish to appear fresh, and at the same time 
he recalled that Saunders had not offered at the 
ball because he thought it was wide of the plate. 
Tom had thought so, too. But the umpire had 
not and Saunders, to his great disgust, had been 
called out. 

Would he be blessed with similar good fortune 
this time at the hands of the umpires and of fate ? 
A lump came into his throat, which he forced 
back, smiling bravely at the keen-eyed diamond 
star. 

“I'm certainly much obliged to you, Mr. Saun- 
ders,” he said. “I only hope you won't take 
revenge on me by putting too many out of the 
lot.” 

Saunders, affectionately known as “the Rube” 
by Gotham's thousands of fans, slowly closed 
one eye, while his leathery face wrinkled into 
multiform creases. 


22 


Back at Haledon 


“Tom!” He held up one finger. “Only one, 
that’s all. But I’m going to push one pill out of 
the enclosure, Tom, so help me Mike ! I’ve gotta, 
kid. Why, that strike-out of yours somehow or 
other has kept me awake more nights than any 
sore tooth I ever had.” 

So saying, and with a good-natured pat upon 
the shoulder, after a comprehensive gesture to 
Mangin and members of the team, he went out 
of the room. 

“All ready, boys ?” asked Maher a few minutes 
later, picking up his bat-bag and stuffing his 
glove into his pocket. “Come on, then.” 

He threw open the door and dashed down a 
cinder-strewn runway, thence emerging suddenly 
upon a vast area of green sward and brown dirt, 
surrounded on all sides by some thirty-odd thou- 
sand seats, rising tier on tier. 

The sharp Haledon bark came from a small 
band of alumni and undergraduates who were 
ensconsed in a corner of the great grand stand, 
which extended in a semicircle from right field 
to left field, while the Giants, who were already 
at practice, turned to look at the advancing band 
of lithe young collegians.; 


*3 


CHAPTER III 

Tom Pitches Against the Giants 

M ANGIN was very officious. An old major- 
league ball-player himself, he was quite 
at home in the environment of this ball-park. 
Ordering his men to pass balls to one another, 
he went up to the plate and held a friendly con- 
fab with McGraw, who was watching his regulars 
as they sent the balls delivered by recruit pitchers 
whistling to recruit fielders. There were perhaps 
three thousand spectators in the cavernous stands, 
some of them Haledon alumni who wished to 
see their nine in action but most of them rooters 
for the professional team who had taken half a 
day off to see for themselves whether the glowing 
reports which the newspaper correspondents had 
sent from the training-camps were half-way true. 

Such enthusiasts are very voluble, as all who 
attend big-league games are aware. The college 
players seemed to excite their amusement, and 
as the boys stood in front of the grand stand, 
passing the ball to and fro, they came in for a 
great deal of good-natured banter. 

“Where are your eye-glasses, perfessor?” cried 
a stout, good-natured-appearing man to Tom. 

24 


Tom Pitches Against the Giants 

Kerry, who had a certain amount of dignity — 
which some were apt to confuse with swell-headed- 
ness — swept the speaker with a cold glance and 
then went on with his practice without replying. 
This was a mistake. From then on the specta- 
tors who occupied front seats gave their complete 
attention to uttering gibes at Tom’s expense — 
“ riding him,” as the current phrase has it. They 
commented on his pose and upon his every ac- 
tion, until Tom, coloring in embarrassment, was 
utterly at loss — was, in fact, peering at the faces 
of his tormentors with intentions which were 
swiftly becoming bellicose, when Saunders drifted 
up to him. 

“ Don’t bother with them at all, kid,” he said 
kindly. “ What’s the trouble?” Tom told him 
and the professional shook his head. 

“You pulled a bone there, son,” he said. “Even 
Ty Cobb can’t get away with a high horse. He’s 
tried, too. But, since it’s happened, just don’t 
answer back, and if you make good they’ll for- 
give you quick enough.” 

So Tom, seeing the wisdom of the advice, 
changed his tactics and actually began to derive 
a modicum of enjoyment from the thick-headed 
wit of the fans, even though he was the victim. 

It ended, for the time being, when Haledon 
25 


The Big Game 

took the field, where they fielded balls and in 
general demeaned themselves in a manner quite 
satisfactory to the representatives of their uni- 
versity who were watching them. As Tom began 
to warm up with Slade, McGraw, a stocky man 
with flashing, hazel eyes and a face expressing 
great determination, stepped behind him. 

“Let’s see what you got, son,” he said. Tom, 
thus spurred, gave of his best, while the great 
manager stood by, making no comment but none 
the less marking every move of the pitcher and 
the course of every ball. Finally, nodding, he 
walked back to the dugout of his team. And 
Tom was too intent upon the game at hand to 
wonder what the famous manager’s opinion of 
him was. 

When the Giants took the field the Haledon 
players watched them with interest. The ease 
and the apparent lack of effort which character- 
ized their work was most impressive. They 
scooped up grounders and threw them to the 
various bases without a single wasted motion, 
the stop and the throw invariably being made 
in one circle, to employ a mechanical term. 

Finally, after a big umpire in blue had con- 
ferred with Captain Maher and McGraw, a bell 
rang, while the official, taking a stand by the 
26 


Tom Pitches Against the Giants 

home-plate, announced that the “batt-rees for 
to-dah’s game are — Haledon, Kerry and Slade; 
Nee Yawk, Tesreau and Rariden.” 

As the Giants’ huge pitcher strolled to the 
mound, tossing in his hand the ball which the 
umpire had thrown out, he impressed the col- 
legians as of mountainous size. All the profes- 
sionals, in fact, had impressed the Haledon players 
in one way or another. They were strapping, 
clean-cut, intelligent young men, all bearing that 
indefinable and yet palpable stamp of big-league 
ball-players. The Haledon men felt their youth 
and their stripling build; even Tom Kerry and 
Arnold Lansing and Ransome and Slade, husky 
though they were, felt a sense of physical in- 
feriority which perhaps was more imagined than 
real. 

Tesreau had a world of speed that day and 
he relied upon it almost entirely. Slade, the first 
man up, sent a grounder to second; Arnold, the 
big first-baseman, a bounder to pitcher; and 
Kennedy struck out. It was then that the Hale- 
don team ran, after the manner of college men, 
to their positions. Tom’s emotions, as he picked 
up the ball and stood facing the first batter, the 
renowned Bennie Kauff, were quite different 
from those which had attended his course to the 
27 


The Big Game 

mound. Always a boy who delighted in action, 
his thoughts were now bent upon the problem 
in hand. If he did well, so much the better; if 
he fared ill, why, he would have the consolation 
of knowing he had fallen at the hands of one of 
the country’s great professional teams. 

Kauff, a stanch little man with a big black 
bat, irradiated confidence as Tom wound up for 
the first ball. It was an in shoot, which the um- 
pire called a strike. 

“Good work, Tom,” came Maher’s deep voice 
from third. But the captain’s was the only com- 
ment. Haledon was dead against the indiscrimi- 
nate yapping of players. 

The next ball was a lofty foul which Bridges 
in left field nearly captured. And then the batter 
lofted a high fly to centre which Lansing caught 
without any difficulty. The next man grounded 
out to Arnold at first, and Burns, the Giants’ left- 
fielder, sent up a foul fly which Slade caught near 
the grand stand. 

The fans showed their mercurial tendencies 
by giving Tom a cheer as he walked to the visit- 
ing team’s dugout, urging him at the same time 
to “take off his cap,” which Tom, smiling sheep- 
ishly, did. Haledon could do nothing with Tes- 
reau in their half of the second. Ransome, the 
28 


Tom Pitches Against the Giants 

heavy hitter, flied out to left; Maher went out 
on a foul fly to third; and Bridges was out trying 
to beat a bunt. In the second half of this inning 
Tom hit the first batter, and the wonderful Davy 
Robertson drove one through left centre, taking 
second and sending the other runner to third. 
The next batter went out on a fly back of first, 
upon which the man on third did not dare to at- 
tempt to score, and then Saunders, with a lethal 
grin at Tom, advanced to the bat. 

On the first ball pitched Saunders took a toe- 
hold and met the sphere fully in the centre. There 
was a sharp crack and the ball flew like a rifle- 
shot across the diamond, headed for the far con- 
fines of the big arena. But Ransome, gathering 
himself, leaped at least three feet into the air, 
his glove hand high aloft. And into the padded 
palm the ball drove like a bullet — and stuck. 
Ransome, hardly knowing what had happened, 
had sufficient instinct to toss the ball to the short- 
stop, who was covering second, and thus, like 
a bolt out of the blue, the Giants were retired. 
It was a really wonderful play, lucky though it 
was, and the spectators and players acclaimed it 
impartially. 

“Where’s the horseshoe?” grinned McGraw 
at the perpetrator of the amazing play, as Ran- 
29 


The Big Game 

some walked in from the field. But the collegian 
merely smiled and shrugged, wondering what the 
reporters who sat in the press enclosure would 
have to say in the morning’s papers. 

Haledon got one man on first in the third in- 
ning, a single by Lansing. He went to second on 
a sacrifice and remained there while two of his 
team struck out. The Giants in their half of the 
third went out on three long flies to the outfield 
and in the fourth Tom struck out two batters 
and retired the other on a bunt. He was using 
to the fullest advantage his fast ball with a little 
upward jump at the end. It hooked in above the 
swinging bats with the utmost elusiveness, while 
the faces of the professionals began to lose their 
detached expressions and the talk of the coachers 
at first and third became acrid. They began to 
make all sorts of low comments to Tom, inform- 
ing him of the terrible lacing in store and in other 
ways seeking to destroy his cool equipoise. But 
Tom did not mind them a bit. 

In the sixth inning, after one out, Robertson 
of the Giants doubled, and a tantalizing infield 
roller was not fielded until the runner reached 
first and Robertson third. Here, with one out 
and two men on bases, Lansing in centre caught 
a fly which was not sufficiently high nor deep to 
30 


Tom Pitches Against the Giants 

permit the swift Robertson to reach home safely, 
although he slid into the plate and was out on 
a close decision which aroused the ire of both 
fans and Giants. Tesreau struck out three Hale- 
don men in the first half of the seventh, and the 
first batter to face Tom was the formidable Kauff, 
who singled on the first ball pitched. But Burns 
forced him out on a grounder to second. 

Then Saunders came to the bat. He had stood 
to one side of the catcher swinging three bats, 
a deep scowl upon his face. Upon his previous 
appearance he had been robbed of a triple by a 
beautiful running catch by Bridges of a singing 
line drive to left centre. He was, as a consequence, 
peevish, feeling, after the superstitious manner of 
professional players, that somehow or other the 
college pitcher had that sort of an advantage 
over him which in baseball parlance is known as 
the “ Indian sign.” 

In a measure Tom felt this, too. Something 
seemed to tell him that he need have no fear of 
this long-distance hitter and so he faced him when 
he came up with the utmost sang-froid. He threw 
a ball which Saunders did not especially like, 
since it was low, but which, in his anger, he at- 
tempted to hit. The result was a foul drive to 
right field. Then Tom gave him another of sim- 
3i 


The Big Game 

ilar sort. Saunders made an effort at it and then, 
his quick eye catching the break, he pulled in 
his bat. But he had swung it more than half- 
way and the umpire very properly called it a 
strike. The big fellow, his face aflame, turned to 
address the arbiter in uncomplimentary terms, 
when Tom made a quick throw, the ball cutting 
the plate while the batter was absolutely unpre- 
pared to make an attempt to meet it. 

“You’re out!” cried the umpire, waving his 
mask in the direction of the dugout. 

“Out!” Saunders turned and gazed at the 
man in blue as though utterly unable to believe 
his ears. “Out ! Why, you — ” The batter 
paused, not wishing to go out of the game. In- 
stead he walked slowly toward his bench, winking 
and mouthing at the spectators, finally commit- 
ting the supreme insult to an umpire’s dignity. 
He held his nose. 

“Hey!” roared the official. “You do that 
again and you’ll take a walk off the field.” 

Saunders, well pleased with the success of his 
pantomime, made no comment, nor did he again 
attempt to offend the umpire’s majesty. 

Tom, in the box, was constrained to suppress 
laughter. He had grown very fond of the simple, 
stalwart professional, and his mannerisms ap- 
32 


Tom Pitches Against the Giants 

pealed to his humorous instincts. Haledon began 
the eighth inning in a manner most businesslike. 
Tom made the third hit of the day for his team, 
and Arnold made first and Tom advanced to 
second on a hit-and-run play. Ransome was hit 
by the pitcher, thereby filling the bases. It was 
then that Mangin himself went out to third to 
coach, bombarding the base-runners with com- 
ment and suggestion. But Kennedy was out on a 
foul fly to the catcher, and then Tom showed his 
ignorance of big-league prowess by playing too 
far off third, whereupon Rariden, with a snap 
throw to the baseman, caught him a foot from the 
bag. The next batter, Maher, struck out, and so 
died Haledon’s hopes. 

In the Giants’ half of the eighth Rariden made 
a two-bagger, but remained there while two of 
his team went out on flies and the other on a bunt 
which Tom retrieved along the first-base line. 
In the ninth Haledon was helpless, and Tom took 
the field with a sinking feeling in his heart. His 
arm was beginning to pain him. But, as it hap- 
pened, he got through the inning very nicely on 
four pitched balls, two of them outs, grounders 
to short and third, the third a single, and last a 
booming outfield fly which Roy caught on the 
run. Roy, by the way, was a pitcher who was 


The Big Game 

playing the outfield because of his hitting abil- 
ity. 

In the first of the tenth a Haledon man got a 
base on balls. He attempted to steal second but 
was out on a rifle-shot throw by the catcher. 
Maher hit a two-bagger and was out trying to 
stretch it to a triple, for which he was scolded by 
the coach when he resumed his seat on the bench. 
Bridges struck out. 

As Tom threw the first ball in the tenth the 
twinge of pain was so sharp that for an instant 
his arm hung by his side, his fingers twitching 
nervelessly. He had thrown a ball. Gritting 
his teeth, he threw with all his might; but the 
ball, held only by the thumb and little finger, 
went up to the plate with deceptive deliberation. 
The batter singled, but the next three men swing- 
ing mightily at the assortment of fast and slow 
balls which Tom delivered went out in order on 
long outfield flies. The inning had been char- 
acterized for Tom by extreme suffering. But 
he said nothing to the coach. He had carried the 
game along thus far and the desire to finish it 
dominated him. His team were not batting be- 
hind him with sufficient vigor to give him great 
hope of winning, but thus far the Giants had 
made but seven hits, and he well knew that any- 
thing might happen in baseball. 

34 


Tom Pitches Against the Giants 

Haledon did not even give her supporters op- 
portunity for a cheer in their half of the eleventh, 
three batters retiring in order on weak infield 
drives. Tom went out from the dugout to the 
field with a sickness of heart. His arm pained 
him every time he moved it, and McGraw, seeing 
his pale, set face, spoke to his team as he departed 
for the third-base coaching-line. 

“You’ll get him this time, boys'; he’s cracking 
under the strain.” But he did not then realize 
that it was a physical, not a mental, strain that 
oppressed Tom. Mangin had noted his condi- 
tion, and attributing thereto reasons similar to 
those of the Giants’ manager had plied Tom with 
encouragement. And Tom, shaking his head 
peevishly, had replied that he was not afraid at 
all. Nor was he. But he did dread meeting 
the pangs which he knew would attend delivery 
of the ball. 

The Giants lead-off men were up — with the 
exception of Kauff, who had flied out in the 
previous inning. First came Burns. Tom, tak- 
ing his courage in his teeth, threw a swift drop 
and was overjoyed to see the stocky outfielder 
get under it and lift it high to left, where it de- 
scended into Bridges’s waiting hands. Robertson 
drove a savage bounder to second, which Ran- 
some captured on the run and threw to Arnold 
35 


The Big Game 

at first. Then Rube Saunders advanced to the 
bat. 

Tom faced him with beads of perspiration 
standing out upon his forehead. The strapping 
professional stood at the plate, slowly swinging 
his bat from his shoulder to a plane level with 
his waist, eager, watchful. He wanted to break 
this spell which Tom had exerted, because he 
knew that otherwise it would affect his confidence 
and perhaps throw him into a batting slump from 
which he might not emerge throughout the 
season. 

Tom wound up and delivered a ball. It was 
high and the umpire adjudged it so. The next 
one was wild; it went clean over Slade’s head 
to the cement wall of the stand. 

“Say, kid,” taunted Saunders, “you ain’t afraid 
to let me give it a ride, are you ? ” 

His actual fear was that Tom would pass him, 
thus depriving him of a chance to even matters 
with this blond-headed young college man. 

“Come on, now; be a man,” came a jeering 
voice from the third-base coacher’s box. “Don’t 
quit now. Go to it, Rube; he’s got nothing left 
but his glove.” 

Tom, summoning all his grit, gripped the ball 
and drove it straight for the plate. The profes- 
36 


Tom Pitches Against the Giants 

sional, divining what was coming, stepped forward 
and met it with his bat just as it broke. A sound 
like splitting oak sounded forth. From Saunders’s 
big bat the ball soared and soared and soared, 
until at length it dropped into the uttermost con- 
fines of the left-field bleachers and fell between 
the seats. 

Tom stood for a moment watching the flight 
of the ball. Then his eyes turned to Saunders, 
jogging from base to base, his face on a broad 
grin. As he crossed the plate and the players 
ran to their dugouts Saunders came out to meet 
Tom. 

“Kerry, my boy,” he said, “you pitched as 
beautiful ball as I ever want to see. I’m proud 
of that hit as I would be had I made it off Grover 
Cleveland Alexander.” 

“When you get ready for the big league, son,” 
said McGraw, “I want to see you.” 

Tom scowled at him. 

“I’ll never be ready for any league,” he said, 
trying to lift his arm and letting it fall. “I have 
no ambition whatever to play professional ball.” 
He paused and then added: “Even if I had, I 
couldn’t.. My arm has gone.” 


37 


CHAPTER IV 
A Bad Arm 

T HE eulogistic comments of the scribes of 
the national game on Tom’s feat in hold- 
ing the Giants to one run in an extra-inning game 
would have been entirely pleasing to Tom were 
it not for the fact that Doctor Terry that morn- 
ing had shaken his head sadly and ordered Tom 
to report to a physician in New York who special- 
ized in bone, muscle, and things of that sort. He 
read the newspapers on his way to the city and 
found that the thing that had impressed the base- 
ball reporters was the fact that Tom, unlike the 
average college pitcher, did not throw the balls 
so much with reference to the centre of the plate 
as to the batters who opposed him. They called 
attention to the fact that with the hard-swinging 
Zimmerman he broke the balls close to the inner 
side of the plate and that with choppy hitters 
he used plenty of curve. 

“In other words,” said the Star reporter, “this 
fellow Kerry studies his batters by instinct and 
38 


A Bad Arm 


seems to know just what they don’t want. And 
he plays the corners of the plate like a Mathewson. 
There is a likelihood,” the article concluded, 
“that Kerry will sign with the Giants after grad- 
uation, although there is not the slightest doubt 
that a number of big-league clubs will bid for 
his services, as he is without question the best 
college boxman who has appeared in the last 
decade.” 

Tom put the paper aside with a frown. He had 
thoroughly threshed out the question of a pro- 
fessional career before he entered Haledon, when 
the manager of the Columbus, American As- 
sociation, team had made every effort to induce 
him to sign with the club. But Tom — and his 
friends, notably Enoch Chase, the former Hale- 
don halfback and now a prominent business man 
of Columbus, who had induced Tom to enter 
the university — believed that he had something 
bigger ahead of him than a career devoted to 
baseball. 

He knew professional baseball for what it was, 
a great amusement enterprise with magnates 
and players struggling to see which would get 
the most money out of it, the public sitting by 
and paying while the strings were pulled. He had 
no ambition at all to be a ball-park favorite, 
39 


The Big Game 

knowing how fleeting such glory is and how 
hollow he would be as a man when his playing 
days were ended, a man without solid accomplish- 
ment and with his university training gone to 
seed through sheer lack of application. 

Yet on the financial side there was, unques- 
tionably, temptation. He had in his desk letters 
from several managers, pointing out the rewards 
that fall to the successful pitcher — ten, twelve, 
even fifteen thousand dollars a year for services 
lasting from March until October. To make 
this fact more significant was the added fact that 
he had the head, strength, and stamina to make 
the assumption that he would succeed in the 
big leagues reasonably well. 

It had bothered him a lot, and as a consequence 
the fact that his injured arm might relieve him 
of all present and future temptations from base- 
ball magnates and managers served to paint his 
dark clouds with a very vivid silver lining. If 
his pitching days were ended, why, then he could 
go ahead without further distractions concerning 
his probable ability to make large sums of money 
in professional baseball. As to such temptation 
as had been involved in the various offers, it may 
be pointed out that Tom had come to college 
without financial resources and was entirely de- 
40 


A Bad Arm 


pendent for means upon the various business 
expedients he had devised at Haledon to pay 
his way through the four years of his college 
course. 

But, as it turned out, the specialist, after a 
very thorough examination, was not so pessimistic 
as Tom had fully believed he would be. 

“It’s the old football injury, as Doctor Terry 
told you,” said the physician. “The great es- 
sential is rest, rest — that is, from throwing a 
ball. By next season I see no reason why you 
should not be able to pitch as well as you ever 
did, without pain or further injury.” 

“You don’t think, then, that I can get into 
the June games against Shelburne and Baliol?” 
asked Tom. 

The man shook his head. 

“No, I should say not; there’s hardly a chance. 
But I tell you: call in here around the latter part 
of May and I’ll look you over.” The physician 
thought a moment and then continued: “You 
ought to do some exercise, though. The very 
best thing in the world would be boxing.” 

“Oh, I always box a lot,” Tom said. “How 
would rowing do ? I worked out on the machines 
with the crew men last winter, just for fun. It 
was interesting work. Since I can’t play ball 
4i 


The Big Game 

do you suppose it would hurt me to go out for 
the crew — I mean, as a substitute; of course I 
can’t make the varsity at this late date.” 

The doctor nodded, saying that he saw no 
good reason why Tom shouldn’t take up crew 
work, but that he must take care to keep his arms 
limber and not get muscle-bound. 

“You see,” he added, “your muscles are now 
just the right sort, long and pliable. If you knot 
them up you can give up any further hope of 
pitching.” 

“I see.” Tom nodded and left the office. He 
arrived at Haledon in the late afternoon and 
delievered the specialist’s written report to Doctor 
Terry, who turned it over to Mangin. The coach 
received it with ill grace. 

“That’s what your football does,” he growled. 
“Get a man that promises to be a world-beater, 
and, by Heck, he goes in for football or basket- 
ball or something and lays himself up. Well, 
take care of yourself, Tom, and if you’re in shape 
to pitch in the Baliol series I’ll not kick. Ar- 
buthnot’s coming along all right and Cartwright 
is improving all the time. We ought to pull along 
fairly well up to the big games.” 

Tom attended the afternoon practice for two 
or three days, but when Mangin caught him ab- 
42 


A Bad Arm 


sent-mindedly throwing the ball around he told 
him to hang his suit up in his locker and keep 
away from the field until he had received pro- 
fessional permission to resume pitching. 

“The first thing you know/’ he added, “your 
right arm won’t be any more use to you than 
the sleeve of an old coat. Now you get out, Tom, 
and stay out.” 

Then it was that Tom, who had a fundamental 
objection to inactivity, called upon the rowing- 
coach. The boy had grown to be greatly in- 
terested in the personality of the various uni- 
versity coaches. Mangin was a former profes- 
sional who had never attended college; he had 
all the characteristics and mannerisms of the 
league graduate, with, however, the addition of 
a certain tact which made him acceptable to 
the faculty. Merriwether, the football coach, 
was an alumnus of Haledon. While teaching 
football for a living, he had lost neither the cul- 
ture nor the ideals which the university stood 
for. The rowing-coach differed from the two 
inasmuch as he was a “gentleman coach,” a 
wealthy graduate, a star stroke oar in his day, 
whose business affairs were of such nature as to 
enable him to devote several months each year 
to instruction in rowing. As an assistant he had 
43 


The Big Game 

an interesting Scotchman who had been a cham- 
pion sculler in England. 

Tom went over to the Graduates Club one 
beautiful April morning and inquired for the 
coach. 

“Mr. Hapgood,” he said, when that gentle- 
man, smoking a large after-breakfast cigar, ap- 
peared in the reception-room, “IVe hurt my arm 
pitching and have to lay off probably all season — 
or at least until June. Fd like to try for the 
crew.” 

The coach studied the tall, stalwart youngster 
and found him quite of the Haledon rowing type. 

“How much do you weigh?” 

“Oh, about a hundred and eighty pounds in 
training. I weighed just yesterday.” 

“I see.” Hapgood’s brow wrinkled thought- 
fully. “Of course it’s late now. We’ve been 
on the water over a fortnight; yet I need a sub- 
stitute of your build for the waist of the boat. 
Tomlinson has a rotten habit of developing boils. 
Have you ever rowed ?” 

“No.” Tom shook his head. “But I worked 
out on the machines all January, just for exercise. 
MacTavish seemed to think I would do if I really 
tried to make a boat.” 

“Ay, he would,” said the assistant, who came 

44 


A Bad Arm 


in at the moment for his morning’s conference 
with the coach. “He’s got the reach and a stavin’ 
good leg drive and he takes to coaching. Course, 
he’s green — but so were most of our boys once.” 

Hapgood nodded. 

“All right, Kerry,” he said. “You report to 
me at the boat-house at three o’clock, and mean- 
while I’ll think the situation over. How are your 
lessons? I mean, are you eligible to row?” 

“Oh, yes,” smiled Tom. “I haven’t a con- 
dition of any sort, and I don’t see any reason why 
I shouldn’t stay in the second group.” 

“Very well,” was the coach’s comment; “you 
come down at three o’clock.” 

So it was that Tom hurried from his last lec- 
ture of the afternoon, political economy, and 
arrived at the boat-house promptly at the hour 
designated by Mr. Hapgood. The boat-house 
was commodious, picturesque, a structure of 
brick and tile situated upon a stretch of green 
sward. Past it ran the river, perhaps quarter of 
a mile wide, following a gently flowing course 
through idyllic green meadow-lands and tree- 
covered hills. Upon the long float were a number 
of men in rowing costumes, sunning themselves. 
Canoes darted hither and thither on the placid 
water and occasionally a single shell shot up the 
45 


The Big Game 

stream like a great water-bug. The rushes and 
other waterside vegetation, refreshing in their 
new green, bowed gently in the soft breezes and 
all about was the flush of adolescent foliage and 
the smell of the clean turf. 

“It certainly is poetic/’ said Tom, as he ad- 
vanced to the coach’s side. 

“Yes,” replied Mr. Hapgood, “it’s the cleanest 
and most beautiful of sports. But,” he added, 
“there’s a lot of hard, grim work involved in it. 
I don’t know of a sport that calls for more sacri- 
fices. I think MacTavish has a rowing-outfit for 
you. I see you have a sweater. Ask him to give 
you a locker and when you’re dressed come out 
to me.” 

When Tom appeared, an object of great in- 
terest to the rowing men, who had not heard of 
his temporary retirement from baseball, the coach 
had drawn a pair-oared gig alongside the float 
and was stepping into it. He was a tall, rangy 
man who, through careful living and exercise, 
had kept his weight down and retained a goodly 
share of his pristine strength. 

“You get into that seat, Kerry,” he ordered. 
“We’ll do a little tubbing. I don’t know that 
you know what tubbing is; but you will. That’s 
right; get in carefully, because craft of this sort 
46 


A Bad Arm 


are finicky. Now, then, before we start — what 
did you learn on the rowing-machines ? ” As 
Tom glanced around at him with an inquiring 
expression, the coach changed his mind. “Never 
mind,” he said, “we’ll pull up-stream a-ways.” 

Tom was not altogether unfamiliar with han- 
dling a sweep, although he said nothing about 
this to the coach. There was a river at Annan- 
dale, not an important stream, upon which was 
situated a boat-house, the property of a club 
whose membership was composed mainly of 
operatives in the big Middleton shoe-factory. 
Tom had frequently swung an oar as a member 
of a four-oared scrub crew, not altogether scien- 
tifically, to be sure, and yet valuable to him now, 
inasmuch as the “feel” of the sweep was not a 
novelty, while at the same time his work on the 
machine under MacTavish’s coaching now stood 
him in stead. 

“Well,” was the coach’s comment, after some 
ten minutes of paddling, “you seem to have the 
rudiments of the idea. You let your slide follow 
instead of lead your shoulders and back, and 
you anchor your blade nicely at the full reach 
and pull it through all right. What you have to 
learn to do is to get the blade out cleanly at the 
finish, and not lift up the whole river on your 
47 


The Big Game 

blade, and you must learn not to roll with your 
stroke. Catch the water without swaying to 
one side, then start your leg drive, not with a 
kick, but with a steady, powerful push.” 

Glancing back at the float, he saw the stal- 
wart varsity eight, their shell, borne aloft, coming 
down the runway. 

“All right,” he said, “that’ll do for to-day, 
at least so far as I am concerned. We’ll go to 
the float and I’ll put one of the third-crew men 
in the gig with you.” 

Hapgood left the gig as it came to a standstill 
at one side of the float, and Tom sat and watched 
the varsity oarsmen as they lowered their shell 
into the water and then, stepping gingerly into 
their seats, began to lace their feet into the shoes 
which were attached to the stretchers. The little 
coxswain, a megaphone strapped to his mouth, 
his hands on the tiller-ropes, was calling forth 
orders, his voice mingling with that of the cox- 
swain of the second crew, members of which were 
stepping into their shell farther down the float. 

“All right,” said Hapgood, stepping into a 
speed-launch which came up at the moment and 
seizing a megaphone lying in the bow. “Go on; 
paddle up-stream — not more than twenty-eight 
strokes to the minute.” 


48 


A Bad Arm 


The two shells drifted slowly away from the 
float. The voices of the coxswains were raised 
in sharp outcry, and with a rattle and a splash 
sixteen oars hit the water. Tom watched the 
eights as they went up the river, admiring the 
powerful swing of the men, the precision with 
which their blades entered and emerged from 
the water. And behind them, in the bow of the 
launch, the coach followed with eagle eye, his 
megaphone raised frequently to his lips as he 
launched criticism and suggestion. The Baliol 
crew was due at Haledon in two weeks for the 
first regatta of the season, and as a consequence 
Hapgood was beginning to apply the lash to his 
men. 

Tom, in the meantime, had been joined by 
Meacham, whom Tom had known as a member 
of the football squad, a substitute linesman, whose 
arms and legs were too short to enable him to 
have a chance of making either the varsity or 
second varsity boats, and therefore was working 
with the squad, a member of the third crew, simply 
through love of exercise on the beautiful river. 
Meacham was a studious youth; he had carefully 
followed Hapgood’s precepts and was thus in a 
position to be of valuable assistance to Tom. 
They spent about three-quarters of an hour on 
49 


The Big Game 

the sunny stream, then returned to the boat- 
house and had a bath. 

As Tom emerged from the door of the boat- 
house, tingling with the glow of his rub-down, 
the varsity shell dashed up to the float. The 
men dropped their oars like lead at the coxswain’s 
sharp “ Weigh all,” and sat hanging over their 
sweeps as the coaching-launch came alongside. 
Mr. Hapgood’s face was dark. 

“Men,” he said, “that was the worst day’s 
row you’ve had since you came on the river. Good 
heavens 1 Is it possible you’ve forgotten every- 
thing you’ve learned ? If any one had told me 
you were going to fall into the habit of not finish- 
ing one stroke before beginning the next, I — 
why, I actually would not have believed him. No. 
Don’t you know that one long drive with the 
oar in the water from catch to finish, a drive which 
keeps water piled up in front of the blade and 
leaves a chugging paddle behind is worth two or 
three half-drives that commence and end in the 
air? Now, please remember, all of you. Baliol 
will be here in two weeks and, frankly, I’m 
worried. All right.” The coach turned away, 
while the oarsmen, with expressions of relief on 
their faces, stepped out of their shell, hoisted it 
aloft, and bore it to the boat-house. 

50 


A Bad Arm 


As they disappeared into the doorway a shell- 
load of oarsmen came rollicking up to the float. 
The oars rattled like those of a galley and the 
shell rolled like a bark in a seaway. There was 
laughter and badinage, mainly directed at the 
coxswain, who, as it appears, had ordered a more 
strenuous stroke on the return to the boat-house 
than the oarsmen had desired. In fact, when 
they got out of the shell they seized the coxswain 
and hurled him into the river, while the air shook 
with mirth, not only from the little coxswain’s 
assailants but from members of the various crews 
who had thrust their heads out the second-story 
windows of the boat-house to learn the nature 
of the confusion. 

“They seem to have enjoyed themselves much 
more than the varsity men,” laughed Tom, gaz- 
ing curiously at Meacham. “Who are they?” 

“Oh, they’re merely a scrub crew out for the 
fun of the thing,” grinned the other. “As a matter 
of fact I am beginning to think they are the ones 
who get the real fun out of rowing. But perhaps,” 
he added with a frown, “that’s sour grapes.” 

Tom smiled. 

“I guess that’s where I’ll land,” he remarked. 
“But it won’t be because I haven’t tried to do 
better.” 

5 1 


The Big Game 

He fully believed what he said, as the coach 
had made no comment concerning Tom’s ability 
or lack of ability, save the remark already quoted. 
As a consequence he was greatly surprised when 
Hapgood, as he was about to enter his motor- 
car, turned and called to Tom. 

“By the way, Kerry,” he said, “I want you to 
be here at the boat-house to-morrow promptly 
at the same hour — three o’clock.” 


52 


CHAPTER V 
Out for the Crew 

I N the days that followed Tom practised as- 
siduously, and at length, through a process 
of tubbing, gave the coach such demonstrations 
of his powers with an oar that he was promoted 
to number six in the second varsity, while the 
reward of the powerful Meacham’s attention to 
his work was signalized when, quite unexpectedly, 
one day he was ordered to take his place as stroke 
of this crew. 

“I’m experimenting,” said Hapgood, as he 
stood on the float looking down at his rearranged 
boat. “You’re not built precisely right, Meacham, 
but you’ve got strength and technical knowledge.” 
(Tom could f bear witness to this statement, since 
the oarsman’s advice had been of material value 
to him.) “You have more real power in this 
second boat — more brawn, I mean — than the 
first varsity has got,” the coach went on. “Now 
to-day I am going to give you a race over the 
mile — and if you can beat the first boat, why, 
you do it.” 


53 


The Big Game 

Matters were growing tense, since on this day, 
Thursday, the Baliol oarsmen were expected, hav- 
ing been invited to spend a day or two before 
the race in becoming acquainted with the course. 
Hapgood had not been at all satisfied with his 
varsity, and, while the chances were that it would 
stand at least until after the Baliol regatta, there 
was the likelihood of several changes by the time 
the crew went to Franklin to row against Shel- 
burne and Franklin in the great aquatic event 
of the Haledon season. As a consequence, the 
various crews were on their mettle, intent, as 
the case might be, upon holding the places they 
had won or climbing to more exalted heights. 
There was keen rivalry between the crews of the 
first and second boats. 

Tom’s crew got away from the float first, and 
the coxswain sent them paddling up the stream 
at a leisurely pace. Astern they could see the 
varsity making their way out into the stream, 
while the coach’s launch was close behind, Hap- 
good sitting at ease in the bow and sending blue 
clouds of pipe smoke over the water. The after- 
noon was placid, silent. The sunlight sparkled 
on the waters, and the hills and meadow-lands 
were steeped in silence. Tom, always keenly 
appreciative of nature, gripped his oar and de- 
54 


Out for the Crew 


cided that of all sports this game of driving a 
cedar shell through smiling waters contained by 
far the greatest amount of poetry. Perhaps, 
had he started to row when the rest did, when 
the cold winds of early March were whistling 
over the river and the oars collided time and 
again against miniature icebergs, he would have 
modified his opinion somewhat; perhaps before 
this rowing season was over he would have reason 
to decide that it was by no means all poetry. At 
present, however, conditions were in every way 
ideal. 

The varsity, with the launch still close astern, 
began to hit up the stroke, and presently the two 
shells were driving along side by side, the coach 
hurling comments and criticism, generally at 
the varsity but occasionally at the second crew. 
On the other side of the river were MacTavish 
and his freshman crews. His strong brogue raised 
in exhortation came across the waters. 

At length, when the two varsity crews had 
gone nearly three miles up-stream, near a point 
where the river fell over a dam the coach raised 
his megaphone. 

“Weigh all he cried. The command was 
repeated by the two coxswains, and then Hap- 
good addressed Ailing, who sat at number five 
55 


The Big Game 

in the varsity. “What’s the matter with you?” 
he said. “You row as if you were sitting on steel. 
Outrigger is too high, you say ? Why, you told 
MacTavish to raise it. Well, let’s see.” He or- 
dered the launch alongside and then, seizing a 
wrench from a box at his feet, he leaned over 
the side and busied himself with the bolts which 
secured the metal framework upon which the 
oar was swung. “There,” he said at length, “try 
that.” The crew paddled off and then returned. 
“That any better?” 

As Ailing nodded the coach swept his eye along 
the boat. 

“How about you, Schwinn? You all right 
now? You, Appleyard ? You, Ellicott ? All 
right. Now we’ll brush you for a mile against 
the second varsity. I’m going to time you, too. 
Let’s see what you can do.” 

The launch backed away, while the coxswain 
of the second crew manoeuvred his shell into posi- 
tion alongside the varsity eight. As the two shells 
came into line, the men reaching forward to stab 
their blades into the water, a sharp “Go!” came 
from the coach. A great splash of white water 
arose from the sixteen oar-blades and the rivals 
shot away from the imaginary line. Both crews, 
under the fiery shouting of their coxswains, hit 
56 


Out for the Crew 


up a stroke of forty-four to the minute, soon 
settling down, however, to forty, to thirty-eight, 
and finally to thirty-six. Meacham, at stroke 
of the second crew, was at his best at a compara- 
tively high stroke, and he loved the thirty-six 
swing. He drove along with rare precision and 
held his men well in hand. At the quarter-mile 
the two boats were approximately on even terms, 
the speed-launch booming behind with water ris- 
ing on either side of her bow, the coach filling 
the air with a constant succession of raucous out- 
cries. 

At the half Tom saw out of the corner of his 
eye that his boat was slipping ahead. It was a 
small gain, but none the less a gain. The cox- 
swain’s voice rose to thrilling ecstasy as he called 
out the stroke. In the varsity shell the rival 
coxswain gave vent to angry outcry, urging his 
men to greater effort. They responded, so that 
at the half they had regained their lost distance 
and were beginning to pull into the lead. At 
the three-quarters the varsity shell had gained 
about a third of a length, but try as they would 
the oarsmen could not gain another inch. And 
in this position the two boats swept between the 
flags amid a chorus of “Weigh all!” 

The coach glanced at his stop-watch and then 

57 


The Big Game 

with an inscrutable expression put it back into 
his packet. He had no idea of giving the time 
t© the men just at that moment; but as a matter 
of fact it was five minutes and twenty seconds, 
not at all bad, considering the slight head wind 
and the time of year. 

“Well,” said Hapgood, “you had all you could 
do to beat the second eight. How do you think 
you’ll fare against Shelburne, unless you try to 
understand that you have to row together, ab- 
solutely together?” Then, realizing that the 
race against the rival university was only forty- 
eight hours away, he adopted a more optimistic 
tone. “But, after all,” he said, “the time was 
not so bad to-day. You’re improving. The boat 
seemed to move better, didn’t it, Dick ?” he asked, 
turning to Sturtevant, the captain, who nodded 
and said that it seemed so to him. 

“All right; paddle on to the boat-house. 
Meacham,” he added, turning his face to the 
second boat, “you rowed a mighty good race to- 
day; no one could ask a better. You too, Kerry.” 
He gestured to the launch-man, and the motor- 
boat backed out of the way of the shells, which 
proceeded down the river at a leisurely swing. 

When they arrived at the boat-house the Baliol 
men were just carrying their shell down the 
58 


Out for the Crew 


float. They were of the usual Baliol type — men 
of average height, broad-shouldered, with long 
arms and sturdy, muscular legs. They struck 
Tom, who watched them closely, as more business- 
like than the Haledon men; he saw, or fancied 
he saw, some of that difference as between the 
Haledon baseball nine and the Giants. As a 
matter of fact, Baliol, as with most other colleges, 
ended their season with a great four-mile race in 
June, whereas Haledon, some years previously, 
had retired from four-mile rowing and was 
committed to distances ranging from a mile 
and five-sixteenths (Henley distance) to two 
miles. 

The Baliol coach was a Canadian, keen-eyed, 
rough-voiced, and dictatorial. He was a vast 
trial to the young gentlemen who sat under 
his tuition, and only the honor of representing 
their university in one of the major sports kept 
many of them at their sweeps. He was an ex- 
cellent coach, though, with a long record of suc- 
cess behind him — with prospects of more to come. 
He of course regarded the Haledon race merely 
as a preliminary try-out, as such, indeed, it was; 
but the traditional rivalry between the two in- 
stitutions gave the event an aspect of importance 
in the eyes of the Baliol sweep-swingers, while the 
59 


The Big Game 

Haledonians, of course, were feverishly intent 
upon victory. 

“ Hello, Mr. Hapgood !” cried the coach genially. 
“We lost no time, you see. Had a brush up the 
river, didn’t you?” he asked, as the two men 
shook hands. The Haledon coach admitted that 
the crews had sprinted over a mile, whereupon 
the Baliol mentor asked him what sort of time 
the varsity had made. This was a question which 
the man had no business to ask, but Hapgood, 
who had ideas of his own concerning a great deal 
of the secrecy which some professional coaches in- 
sist upon maintaining, answered quite frankly, 
giving the correct time. 

The other coach, Jennings, whistled. 

“That isn’t so bad,” he shrugged. “Not at 
all bad, considering the conditions. In fact, I 
doubt if we are up to it.” But Hapgood had his 
own opinion as to this. 

Tom, on his way back to the campus, caught 
sight of Mangin, who was approaching him with 
irate face. 

“Look here, Tom,” he said, “what’s this I 
hear about your rowing in the second varsity 
crew ? Don’t you know you’re still a member 
of the baseball squad and under my orders?” 

“Why, yes, in a way,” Tom replied, gazing 
60 



Look here, Tom,” he said, “what’s this I hear about your 
rowing in the second varsity crew?” 





Out for the Crew 


at the man in surprise. “But you told me to 
keep away from the field, and so I went in for 
crew work just for the fun of the thing.” 

“Well,” — Mangin sputtered and stammered, — 
“haven’t you known me long enough to know 
that I say more than I mean when I get excited ? 
Yes, I did tell you not to come to the field when 
I saw you throwing that ball around, but I didn’t 
suppose you’d keep away altogether.” 

Tom, whose ways were very direct, whose yea 
was yea and his nay nay, regarded the man with 
perplexity, seeing which, Mangin went on. 

“You’re not such a batter, you know, that 
you don’t need to keep up with your batting- 
practice. I don’t like this rowing anyway.” 

Tom replied that the New York specialist had 
said it wouldn’t hurt him and that Doctor Terry 
had not objected either. 

“Well, I do,” Mangin asserted. “You put 
yourself out playing football and, not satisfied 
with that, you are going to tie yourself with row- 
ing. Well, you quit — do you get me? You re- 
port at the field to-morrow.” 

Tom, as a matter of fact, was enough of a base- 
ball enthusiast to have begun to miss the ball- 
field, despite the fact that it was considerably 
less poetic in its nature than aquatics. There 
61 


The Big Game 

was a dash about the game that he liked, and he 
loved pitting his wits against batsmen. Yet at 
the same time he believed himself more or less 
committed to Hapgood. Not that he believed 
the rowing-coach attached any great value to his 
services, yet at the same time he felt it to be 
the part of courtesy to consider him. And he 
said so to Mangin, who scowled and shrugged 
and went off to find Mr. Hapgood, saying he would 
fix the matter up at once. 

But, so far as Mr. Hapgood was concerned, 
Mangin found himself not such a good fixer as 
he had imagined he would be. The rowing-coach 
heard him calmly and then said that Tom had 
come to be an important fixture in the second 
crew and that he had no idea of disturbing the 
combination at this time. 

“You admit he has no chance of playing ball 
until June, Mangin,” he said. “Our season is 
over after we row at Franklin on May 20. I cer- 
tainly can see no reason why you should not lend 
us his services.” 

“Well, he ought to keep up in his batting-prac- 
tice,” replied the baseball mentor, “and besides, 
it hurts the spirit of the team to have one of the 
most important members away from it. I won’t 
stand for it, that’s flat.” 

62 


Out for the Crew 

Hapgood looked at him musingly. 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to, Mangin,” he said 
at length. “Kerry is going to be the best sub- 
stitute for the waist of the boat that we have. 
Ailing is always liable to go bad under training, 
and if anything should happen I want to slip 
Kerry in. Now, Mangin, be a good chap.” 

But the baseball coach, who had that species 
of jealousy which most coaches entertain toward 
instructors in other branches of sport, was ob- 
durate. 

“I’m not going to hurt our chances for the 
championship on account of the crew,” he de- 
clared. 

“Very well,” returned Hapgood, “I’ll take up 
the matter with the Athletic Association.” 

Which he did, Mangin being present. The 
treasurer, who under the Haledon system, was the 
principal athletic officer, heard both men and 
then, having soothed the baseball instructor with 
sugar-coated words, decreed that Tom should 
continue with his rowing. 

“You see,” smiled the treasurer, studying a 
report which lay on his desk, “ Kerry, with all 
his early-spring batting-practice, hit only for one 
hundred and ninety in games in which he played 
up to the date of his retirement. So I imagine 

63 


The Big Game 

a five or six weeks’ lay-off won’t, can’t, do him a 
great deal of harm.” 

“That,” replied Mangin earnestly, “shows all 
you know about baseball, Mr. Leach. You can 
see why I want him to practise and improve.” 

“But,” smiled the other, “I have always heard 
you say that you cannot teach a poor hitter to 
bat. If I recall your theory correctly, a batter 
^nust come by his ability naturally.” 

“You didn’t get me quite straight,” protested 
Mangin. “What I said was that you can’t make 
a man bat who can’t bat. But you can develop 
a player’s natural ability. Tom Kerry has got 
natural ability, but he hasn’t learned to produce 
it because he’s been up against backwoods pitchers 
all his life. That’s what I want to do, develop his 
ability.” 

“Now, see here, Mangin,” said Mr. Leach, 
with unexpected vigor. “You were not thinking 
at all about Kerry, were quite willing to have him 
lay off until his arm came around — until you 
heard that he had made the second varsity eight. 
Isn’t that so?” As Mangin stammered, Hap- 
good and the treasurer laughed boisterously, 
while Mangin himself, who was by no means a 
bad fellow, was forced to grin too. 

So it was that Tom continued with his rowing 

64 


Out for the Crew 


and had the honor on the day of the regatta 
of rowing a close race against the Baliol junior 
varsity combination, which finished half a length 
in the lead. The varsity did not fare so well. 
In the first half of the two-mile race the rival 
eights dashed along side by side, but in the second 
mile the superior watermanship of the Baliol’s 
crew began to tell, and at the finish there was a 
length of open water between the Shelburnes* 
rudder and Haledon’s bow. Otherwise the oc- 
casion was a great success, the banks of the stream 
along the course lined with excited spectators 
and a great line of motor-cars following the con- 
testants along the river road. 

On the Monday following this event Meacham 
was unexpectedly promoted to stroke of the varsity 
— an example of hard, painstaking effort triumph- 
ing over physical defects, while Tom was informed 
that he would be taken to the Franklin regatta 
as a substitute for the waist of the boat. 


65 


CHAPTER VI 
The Journey to Franklin 
OM’S journey to Franklin, in a hilly lake 



X country of lower New England, compen- 
sated in many ways for his growing anxiety to 
return to baseball. For, when all is said and 
done, your true baseball-player, while he may 
indulge in other sports, loves the national game 
above all, and naturally enough, since ability 
in the sport is a natural phenomenon and is rarely 
acquired; — which, however, is not to say that 
such qualifications as any boy may have cannot 
be developed and improved upon. With Tom, 
as the days had gone on, had come the poignant 
desire to send a clean, white ball whistling up to 
the plate and to swing his bat against the hard, 
smooth horsehide sphere. But now on the train, 
en route for the great regatta of the Haledon sea- 
son, Tom's thoughts centred upon the coming race. 
Franklin — as Shelburne — was one of the great 
four-mile universities, and this race, while not 
her final test — it was to be held over a two-mile 
course — was none the less an extremely important 


66 


The Journey to Franklin 

annual event in national collegiate aquatic an- 
nals. 

Tom had that peculiar pleasure of being able 
to cast his thoughts ahead, as it were objectively. 
He was with the crew only as a substitute, and 
there was not a chance in a thousand that he 
would row against Franklin. As a consequence 
he could view the regatta without any of that 
mental strain which athletes who are about to in- 
dulge in important tests feel. And by the same 
token he could more heartily enter into the plea- 
sures of the journey, which was through beautiful 
country, made more beautiful by the opulent ver- 
dure of late May. In short, the trip, to Tom, 
was a junket pure and simple — all expenses paid 
and nothing to do but enjoy himself. He was 
now well-pleased that he had gone in for rowing. 

They arrived at Franklin in the late afternoon 
and at once went to the boat-house, whither their 
shell had been shipped the preceding day. Mac- 
Tavish, who had accompanied it, had everything 
in readiness, the shell rigged and set for action. 

“ Ye’ll get rougher water here than we have 
at home, Mr. Hapgood,” he said, “and so Fve 
raised all the outriggers a wee. Ye’ll remember 
two years ago when we were rigged so low that 
we couldn’t push the shell through the waves?” 

67 


The Big Game 

Hapgood nodded and turned to the oarsmen. 

“Now, you fellows hurry and get dressed. I 
just want a little paddle and a few practice starts, 
and then Mr. Arthur here” — indicating a Franklin 
student — “will take us to the Chi Psi house, which 
has been turned over to us.” 

The crew were lowering their boat into the 
water when the Shelburne eight, which had arrived 
the preceding day, shot past the float in the final 
stages of their practice row. As the eyes of the 
Haledon men followed them they saw a great, 
husky boat-load of men who in the spurt which 
the coxswain had ordered were not especially 
smooth. 

“I guess,” said Wainwright, the captain, “that 
what we read about those chaps in the papers is 
true. They’ve lots of power but not a great deal 
of smoothness.” 

“Well, don’t be too sure,” frowned the coach. 
“They may have enough power to offset any 
roughness — remember Leland Stanford at Pough- 
keepsie a few years ago. Then again they may 
be acting for our benefit.” He smiled. “Such 
things have happened, you know.” 

But, whatever might be Shelburne’s real merit, 
there was no question that Haledon was smooth. 
The weeks of hard work which Hapgood had put 
68 


The Journey to Franklin 

in since the Baliol regatta had undoubtedly 
told. The men handled their oars cleanly and 
with precision, and the boat travelled well be- 
tween strokes — which, after all, is one of the very 
greatest tests. The coach was not slow to ex- 
press satisfaction as the men entered motor-cars 
which the Franklin athletic authorities had pro- 
vided. 

“Your form,” he said to Wainwright, “is as 
perfect as I can get it, and Im satisfied. Meacham 
has put a lot of power into the boat, and yet I 
wouldn’t mind a little more strength. However, 
for a two-mile race I think we have every reason 
for confidence — not overconfidence,” he added 
sharply. 

The fraternity-house was one of the most com- 
modious and attractive at Franklin, and, in ac- 
cordance with an amiable custom which has grown 
up among universities which hold regattas on their 
home courses, the Haledonians were made very 
much at home. In fact, all the Franklin men 
who belonged to this fraternity had abandoned 
their quarters, so that aside from the servants 
they had the building completely to themselves. 
Similar hospitality had been accorded the oars- 
men of Shelburne, who occupied the Beta Phi 
house across the street. 

69 


The Big Game 

As will happen in May in this region the night 
was very cool, which gave adequate excuse for 
the lighting of logs in the immense fireplace, 
around which the oarsmen gathered after dinner 
and abandoned serious thought of the morrow. 
Wainwright was an excellent pianist and he 
needed no great urging to induce him to go to 
the instrument. 

They roared forth the “Stein Song,” and many 
a good melody exalting the fame of Haledon, or 
Franklin, or Shelburne, or Baliol, or other seat 
of learning as the case might be. Then Ellicott, 
after repeated urging, stood up and sang to Wain- 
wright’s accompaniment that rollicking song of 
the man who in a crowded car informs a young 
miss that while he will not give up his seat to her 
she may sit on his lap. 

‘“’Bilge a lady, ’blige a lady, 

’Blige a lady, sir/ 

Says I, ‘Old chap, she can have my lap, 

But I won’t stand up for her.”’ 

Every one joined in the chorus — even Tom 
Kerry, whose voice by the way would never qualify 
him for membership in the Haledon University 
Glee-Club. Then Hawke, the sober-faced little 
coxswain, gave his famous imitation of an Irish- 
man ordering food supplied in a German delicates- 
70 


The Journey to Franklin 

sen-shop, and Appleyard, a studious youth not 
without ability as an actor, was called upon for 
his imitation of the president conducting chapel. 
A merry, merry evening all in all — such an 
evening as young, ardent, red-blooded boys 
may be counted on to enjoy even if the mor- 
row hold for them an event upon which the 
success or failure of their rowing season would 
be based. 

The morning brought wonderful weather — 
perfect May breezes and warm sunshine. Frank- 
lin was en fete. • “Regatta Day” was the uni- 
versity’s great celebration, a time when the fra- 
ternities entertained bevies of girls, when graduates 
came back, and when the undergraduates gave 
their annual circus. This began with a parade 
of the students involved in the show — some twelve 
hundred of them — arrayed as clowns, freaks, 
animal-trainers, and what-not. A sheaf of tickets 
of admission to the circus and the various side- 
shows had been sent around to the Haledon quar- 
ters, and there was discussion among the eager 
crew men whether or not the coach would permit 
them to attend. 

“I don’t know,” said Wainwright, shaking his 
head. “He may. He did two years ago. You 
know we are not to go out this morning in the 
7i 


The Big Game 

shell, and he told us not to think about the race.” 
He nodded at Sheldon, the crew-manager, to 
whom the tickets had been delivered. “You 
go see Mr. Hapgood, Steve,” he said. 

But at the moment the coach appeared from 
breakfast, filling his pipe. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, catching the 
faces turned in his direction. “Anything hap- 
pened?” His voice was sharp; he was always 
tense on the day of a race. 

“Why,” explained Sheldon, “the Franklin 
crowd have sent in a bunch of tickets for the 
circus and we were wondering — that is, the fel- 
lows thought if you didn’t mind they’d like to 
take it in.” 

“I see.” Hapgood frowned thoughtfully. 
“Well, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t 
go, if you want to. Only I want you all back 
here by noon.” 

So joyfully, in pairs or trios, the oarsmen saun- 
tered up the hill to the enclosed university athletic 
field and entered into a perfect maelstrom of 
horse-play and color. Students who were not 
in the show, as well as their best girls, professors, 
their wives and families, and thousands of town 
folk were walking about the grounds, entering 
one tent or another, or watching the antics of 
72 


The Journey to Franklin 

hucksters and various merry wights arrayed in 
outlandish costume. 

Tom and Ben Morrison, who had become sepa- 
rated from their fellows, wandered here and there, 
enjoying the novel sights to the full. Morrison, 
who rowed at number six, was full of animal spirits, 
ever ready to laugh; and Tom, amused as he was 
at the horse-play, was no less amused at his com- 
panion. They paused before a tent on the out- 
side of which stood a barker, his high hat over 
his eye, his face streaked alternately with black 
and white. 

“Madama Zella, the Oriental fortune-teller,” 
he was roaring. “She tells your fortune either 
by cards or palmistry — a truly wonderful and 
talented woman of whom the New York news- 
papers have justly said she stands without an 
equal in this country to-day.” 

“Let’s go in and see her,” laughed Morrison. 
Tom being nothing loath, they surrendered two 
of their coupons and entered the tent, where, 
surrounded by a thick mass of laughing auditors, 
the fortune-teller — who, as it chanced, was the 
“funny man” of the glee-club — was reading the 
palm of Franklin’s football captain. 

Morrison pressed to the fore, Tom at his elbow, 
and insisted upon having his fortune told. And 
73 


The Big Game 

this at length the seer, who was dressed as a fat, 
frowsy old witch, did. 

“You are not a student of Franklin,” he said, 
catching sight of a class pin on Morrison’s shirt. 

“No, I’m not,” smiled the oarsman. 

“No, you’re a student of Haledon,” jeered 
the fortune-teller. “And that’s bad luck. I see 
a black mark across your life.” 

Had Tom and Morrison realized the element 
of truth underlying this prophecy they would 
not have received it as mirthfully as they did. 
But of course they couldn’t know that — neither, 
it may be remarked, could the fortune-teller. 
So, laughing, they quitted the tent and sought 
for fresh amusement. 

As they walked they noticed that very fre- 
quently a student dressed as a policeman would 
accost a man or a girl and after a parley announce 
that he or she was under arrest. Thereupon they 
would be led off to a tent marked “Court-House.” 
This interested Morrison extremely. 

“Let’s go in and see what they do with these 
people,” he suggested. But when they sought 
admission to the tent they were repulsed. But 
by working their way around behind they found 
a rent in the canvas, looking through which they 
saw a man in the robes of a judge, with attendants 
74 


The Journey to Franklin 

standing upon either hand. A prisoner happened 
to be at the bar as they looked. 

“What is the complaint, officer ?” the magis- 
trate was asking. 

“The complaint,” said the policeman, “is that 
he’s one of the most popular professors in Frank- 
lin.” 

“Shame!” cried the judge, bringing down his 
gavel with a bang. “You are fined fifteen cents.” 

“I catch the idea,” said Tom. “They arrest 
people they know very well. I don’t imagine 
they touch strangers; that’s the reason we’ve 
escaped.” 

“I suppose so,” grinned Morrison. “I’d like 
to see them arrest me; they’d have a fine time 
taking me to the court-house.” 

“Oh, they wouldn’t do that,” said Tom; “and, 
even if they did, what’s the difference ? All the 
money taken in here goes to the Athletic Asso- 
ciation. They’ve entertained me so well that 
I wouldn’t begrudge a dime or so.” 

“Oh — money !” scoffed Morrison, whose father, 
as a matter of fact, was a millionaire manufac- 
turer of Pittsburgh. “I don’t mind that. But 
it would be fun resisting arrest.” * 

“Yes, and get a sprain or something in the 
rough-house,” was Tom’s comment. 

75 


The Big Game 

“That’s right.” Morrison shook his head. 
“Just the same I wouldn’t be arrested.” 

“You wouldn’t!” Two student policemen 
who chanced to be passing, and overheard the 
remark, bristled up to the pair. “Would you 
kindly repeat that remark?” 

“I remarked that there isn’t a policeman in 
Franklin that could take me in,” jeered Mor- 
rison. “Good night.” 

Eluding the hands which were stretched out 
to seize him, Morrison dived through the crowd, 
the policemen after him, Tom after them. As 
one of them, evidently a sprinter, dashed to Mor- 
rison’s side, Tom thrust out his foot and tripped 
him, the policeman going headlong to the turf. 
But his fellow ran on in close pursuit of the fugi- 
tive, blowing desperately upon his whistle and 
summoning other student officers to the chase. 
It was great fun; every one was laughing, every 
one was excited. In and out among the crowd 
dashed Morrison, the policemen following in 
his wake, seeking him behind tents and wagons 
and at length driving him into a corner of the 
enclosure, with a fence ten feet high above. This 
fence was supported by planks and up one of 
these Morrison, now thoroughly intent upon 
escape, shinned with the agility of a monkey. 
76 


The Journey to Franklin 

Tom, who stood among the throng below, called 
up to him. 

“Come on down, Ben, and be arrested. I 
wouldn’t go up there.” But Morrison’s sporting 
instincts were aroused and, besides, two police- 
men, similarly inspired, were making their way 
up the supports. 

So the fugitive, gaining the top of the fence, 
leered down for a moment at his pursuers and 
then, crawling over the outside, hung by his hands 
and dropped. 

There was a moment’s silence as the policemen 
reached the top and looked over. Then, as Tom’s 
heart came into his throat, one of the two glanced 
into the enclosure. 

“I guess he’s hurt himself,” he said. 

Tom, waiting to hear no more, ran to the gate 
of the grounds and thence around to the spot 
whence Morrison had made his escape. He was 
standing erect, supported by the policemen, who 
were now all sympathy. As Tom came up Mor- 
rison glanced at him, wincing. 

“I guess I’ve done it now, Tom, old boy,” he 
groaned. 

“Oh,” said one of the policemen soothingly, 
“it’ll be all right in a day or two — it’s only a turn 
of the ankle, I guess.” 


77 


The Big Game 

“A day or two!” cried Tom, glancing at the 
speaker. “Why, he’s a member of the Haledon 
crew.” 

“My heavens!” One of the policemen sprang 
into the road, beckoning to a passing motor-car, 
while the other gazed dazedly at Morrison. 
“Why, for the love of Pete, didn’t you tell us 
who you were?” he cried. “Why, I wouldn’t 
have had this happen for ” 

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Morrison. “Here, 
Tom, help me up into the car and we’ll see what 
Mr. Hapgood thinks.” 

The two policemen wanted to accompany them 
to the Chi Psi house, but their expressions of 
regret were getting on Morrison’s nerves; so 
Tom thanked them and said they wouldn’t be 
needed, whereupon the two make-believe officers 
of the law turned toward the dormitories, saying 
they had had enough of police duty for some time 
to come. 

Hapgood’s face was a study, as the motor-car 
drew up to the door of the Haledon headquarters. 
He was seated on the veranda smoking, with 
several alumni who had come up to see the re- 
gatta, and, as a matter of fact, Wainwright and 
one or two others of the crew had already returned. 

“What’s the matter?” The coach ran down 

78 


The Journey to Franklin 

the pathway, accompanied by the crew men. 
Tom hastily explained that Morrison had been 
hurt at the circus, leaving it to the injured man 
to explain how, who, in truth, was not at all un- 
willing to confess his guilt. 

“I was trying to escape from some policemen,” 
he said, “and dropped over the fence. It’s my 
right ankle.” 

Hapgood’s face was grave. 

“Here, don’t try to walk on it. Two of you 
fellows take him by the shoulder — that’s right. 
Now lift gently.” Fortunately, one of the Hale- 
don alumni was a New York physician, and he 
lost no time in getting off Morrison’s shoe once 
he was carried to a divan in the hall. He spent 
some time in examining the foot, pressing it at 
various points while others of the party watched 
him anxiously. 

At length he looked up. 

“Well, Dick, will he be able to row?” The 
coach’s voice betrayed the depths of his anxiety. 

Then, with every eye upon him, the physician 
gravely shook his head. 

“No,” he said, “he won’t row this afternoon. 
In fact, I doubt if he will be able to walk for a 
few days at least.” 

“Pshaw!” The coach walked away, clucking 

79 


The Big Game 

his despair. Presently he returned. “This,” 
he said, “is the last time that any crew of mine 
gets out of my sight on the day of a race. I for- 
got that after all they are a crowd of children 
who have to be watched as such.” 

Then he swung suddenly around upon Tom. 
“Kerry,” he said, “it’s up to you. You will 
row at number six this afternoon.” 


80 


CHAPTER VII 

Tom Rows at Number Six 

T OM walked apart, early a prey to varied 
emotions. The last thing in the world he 
had expected was a summons to sit in the most 
important regatta of the Haledon season as a 
member of the university crew. As a consequence, 
he had been enjoying the novelty of his visit to 
Franklin with a mind free from care and doubt. 
Now, at the last moment, to be pitchforked into 
the shell, with all the responsibility involved, 
was a shock to his equanimity. He said nothing, 
of course, to indicate that this was the fact; but 
the coach, perhaps reading his thoughts, came 
over to him just before he retired. 

“Tom,” he said, “I’m not at all afraid of you. 
You are of the fighting type, the sort of boy who 
hardens under fire. You have worked hard this 
spring and have given your mind to mastering 
our stroke; you have it. You have merely to 
keep your head — which I know you will — and 
row as you play football and baseball, with a 
stout heart and unflinching nerve. You have 
no need to worry at all.” 

81 


The Big Game 

Tom thanked him, and then Hapgood called 
the oarsmen about him. 

“Now, don’t you fellows lose weight worrying 
over this regatta. You are here to win, of course; 
but if you lose there’s no disgrace, provided you’ve 
done your best — which you will. The main thing 
about this game is the spirit of sport, the spirit 
of fair sportsmanship and good-natured, high- 
minded rivalry. If Franklin and Shelburne can 
beat you, well and good; if you can beat them so 
much the better. But remember — the main end 
of our whole season is sport — s-p-o-r-t, and that 
while we want to win if we can we are not here 
essentially to win.” 

The coach’s ideals were sincere — he felt them; 
yet it must be said he was speaking in this vein 
more to apply a sedative to the oarsmen than 
to instruct them in ethics. As a consequence, 
he could not suppress a smile, nor could the crew 
men withhold applause, when Captain Wain- 
wright arose with a serious face. 

“Mr. Hapgood,” he said, “I don’t know how 
the other fellows feel, but I think I should say 
right now that I personally am here to win — 
fairly, of course — and for no other purpose.” 

Something of the captain’s determined spirit 
was caught by all the oarsmen, Tom included, 
Bz 


Tom Rows at Number Six 


and he found himself looking forward to the 
great event of the afternoon not only without 
misgiving but with some degree of thrilled ex- 
pectancy. 

The crew had a light luncheon and were then 
ordered to pursue their own devices about the 
fraternity-house until the time came for them 
to repair to the lake. Among the features of the 
early afternoon was a baseball game between 
the Shelburne and Franklin nines, and the coach, 
the manager, and assistant manager decided to 
attend, leaving MacTavish in charge of the oars- 
men. 

MacTavish was the very apostle of confidence. 
His optimism was like a breath of fresh air on a 
sultry day. The fact that he was always thus on 
the eve of a race made little or no difference to 
the oarsmen; they wanted confidence in large 
doses. And the loquacious Scot was the man to 
apply it. 

“The Hardens/’ he said to a group on the 
veranda, “will win; ay, they’ll win if they but 
row their race. I’ve watched Shelburne. Hoot ! 
There’s noa use considerin’ them. They roll all 
over the shell. They hang between strokes like 
a — like a lame horse. At the mile they’ll be out 
of sight, mark me. Franklin we’ll hae to beat, 
83 


The Big Game 

yes. But they’re not the Franklin crew of a last 
year, or the year before — not so smooth. They 
have beef, yes; but recall they have to pull their 
own weight. And they don’t pull it so fine as 
they have done, noa, sir. Mind what I’m a-sayin’ 
to ye.” 

It was amid a constant stream of talk such as 
this that the Haledon oarsmen entered auto- 
mobiles and rolled slowly down-hill to the great 
boat-house, a section of which had been assigned 
to them. Out of the windows of their apartment 
they could see on the farther shore the long line 
of observation-cars, vibrant with color, the long, 
sturdy cheer of Franklin coming to them over the 
waters. The Franklin and Shelburne freshmen 
crews were to supply the curtain-raiser to the 
great event of the day, and the two crews were 
already slipping away from the float, followed 
by the referee’s launch and a small yacht crowded 
with members of Franklin’s rowing committee, 
their wives, and other exalted guests. 

When the Haledon crew came down the stairs 
the men of Franklin were carrying their favorite 
shell out of the boat-house. They were a sturdy 
lot, with fine, long arms, straight, powerful legs, 
and beautifully modelled bodies. They lifted 
their shell up without apparent effort and set it 
84 


Tom Rows at Number Six 


down in the water, the assistant coach standing 
by, giving a few final instructions in a low voice. 
At length, as they stepped into their shell, the 
man gave them a push with his foot and then 
stood, watching them pull away. 

“Now, fellows,” said Hapgood, “one final 
word: You know — at least I’ve told you — how 
Franklin rows. Almost any crew can lead them 
at the start and up perhaps to the half-mile. 
They — I mean Franklin — will glide along un- 
hurried, with their smooth, steady stroke, driving 
along beautifully. In mid-course they will begin 
to spurt, not by increasing the stroke but by 
putting on a little extra power. Here is where 
she expects to take the lead, and she’ll keep on 
with that same swing, adding perhaps a bit of 
power, simply trying to row her opponents down 
and out. Now I’ve told you how to meet this — 
you remember, cox ?” As the little fellow nodded 
the coach gestured. “All right, get overboard — • 
and remember you’re Haledon men.” 

The sun was slowly sinking to the line of blue 
hills on the western side of the lake, and the waters 
were purpling in the waning light, as the Haledon 
oarsmen dipped their blades into the water and 
sent their shell out into the stream. There was 
a vast peace everywhere. Only the sharp voice 

85 


The Big Game 

of Bert Hawke the coxswain, the rush of the slides, 
and the rattle of the rowlock disturbed the silence. 
The coxswain, to whom would be intrusted the 
task of steering the shell properly and of negotiat- 
ing the race in just the right way, was a fellow 
dark, wiry, and black-eyed. In many ways he 
suggested the name he bore. He was a fellow 
with vast determination, full of grit, and very 
much respected by the big fellows who sat at the 
sweeps. 

“All right, fellows,” he would say. “Take it 
easy. Just a paddle. There’s no hurry. And 
the water’s just suited for us, a surface like glass.” 

Tom, bending to his oar, sliding back and forth 
with his feet against the stretchers, was beginning 
to feel a strange sensation at the pit of his stomach. 
If he were only on a gridiron with a football soar- 
ing toward him, or in the box at a baseball game, 
he would, of course, be tense — but his stomach 
would feel all right. He couldn’t quite under- 
stand his condition. None the less he paddled 
doggedly ahead, fully determined to remember 
every precept and to pretend that he was merely 
in a practice row on the home course. 

Presently they entered a lane of power-boats, 
yachts, and craft of all sorts gathered at the finish 
line. The cox steered them in between two big 
86 


Tom Rows at Number Six 


motor-boats practically on a line with the finish 
and ordered the crew to rest on their oars. Not 
far away, on the other side of the lane, was the 
Franklin boat. The freshmen were racing. This 
fact was attested by the cheers that floated down 
the course, and evidently, from the volume of 
sound, the Franklin cubs were leading. So they 
were, but not by a great margin; for as the two 
shells swept into view of those at the finish line 
the local shell patently was not more than half 
a length ahead. 

And thus they finished, while the echoes re- 
sounded with cheers and whistle-blasts. 

It was then that the observation-train began 
to pull up the lake, while the voices of thje Frank- 
lin, Shelburne, and Haledon coxswains arose order- 
ing their men under way. 

It seemed to Tom as though they would never 
reach the head of the two-mile course. The oar 
seemed as heavy as though it were made of iron, 
and he began to wonder how he could swing it 
throughout the race. Facing this dread thought, 
his teeth suddenly clicked and he began to take 
himself in hand. 

“You fool! ,, he muttered; “what are you 
doing — quitting ? These fellows here are no 
stronger than you; most of them are not so strong. 

87 


The Big Game 

If they can swing their oars you can; if they can 
keep their nerve you can. Now go to it and show 
yourself what a man you are — or else don’t you 
ever look into a glass again.” 

Thus belaboring himself he brought his nerves 
under approximate control and before he knew 
it the stern of his shell was in the grasp of a man 
leaning over the back of a skiff anchored at the 
finish. There were two other skiffs, precisely in 
line, and the rival shells were jockeying to get in 
touch with them. 

The referee in his swift white launch, the 
coaches, gathered astern, hovered near by, mega- 
phone in hand, hurling directions to one crew or 
the other. Presently he directed his trumpet 
shoreward. 

“There will be no cheering on the observation- 
train until the race is started,” he said. 

“All right,” muttered Tom, bending poised 
over his oar. “For heaven’s sake get the race 
started.” 

“Are you ready, Haledon?” The coxswain 
raised his hand in a gesture of assent. “Are you 
ready, Franklin ?” There came a pause. Then — 
“Wait a moment.” The oarsmen slumped over 
their blades with a sigh, while the launch hurried 
ahead, picked a floating cask out of the course, 
88 


Tom Rows at Number Six 


and towed it to one side. Returning, the formula 
of interrogation was again held. 

“Are you ready, Haledon ? Are you ready, 
Franklin? Are you ready, Shelburne?” 

A sharp pistol-shot suddenly awoke the echoes 
and twenty-four oar-blades went into the water 
at precisely the same moment. Tom catching 
the count at forty-four to the minute, swinging 
his body and driving his legs and pulling on his 
oar-handle, all thought of nervousness left him. 
The action that he and his fellows craved was 
on, and now there was no thought but to win 
the race. Out of the tail of his eye he could see 
the two other shells, fairly abreast, the oar-blades 
flashing in and out of the water. 

“Steady, men! Steady!” Hawke’s knife-like 
voice caressed their ears as he lowered the stroke, 
after the first minute, to thirty-six and finally 
to the even thirty-four that the crew loved. He 
could see now that Haledon was leading slightly. 
He fastened his eye grimly upon the heaving back 
of the man in front of him — or rather, since the 
oarsmen faced the stern, of the man behind him. 

Yes, Haledon was leading and Hawke was bark- 
ing out the stroke with a note of glee in his voice. 
Shelburne was already floundering, throwing up 
buckets of water and patently dropping astern. 
89 


The Big Game 

Tom now could catch a fine view of them. As 
MacTavish had said, the race was to be between 
Franklin and Haledon. At the half-mile Haledon 
had a clear lead of quarter of a length. But Tom, 
while encouraged, was by no means exalted. 

“It’s just as the coach said,” he breathed. 
“They’re just having a nice, pleasant go with 
us now. But wait.” 

At the mile nothing had happened. The Hale- 
don bow was perhaps thirty feet in advance of 
the brazen prow of the Franklin boat and there 
it was hanging. 

“Don’t lose your heads, fellows. You’re doing 
finely. Keep steady as you are. They can’t 
tease us into a spurt and kill us off now.” 

Somehow or other he timed his utterance to 
the rhythm of the oars, which was wonderfully 
soothing and helpful. Tom knew he had still 
much more to give, as no doubt did the others. 
But this was not the time for it. Still plugging 
away, Tom began humming a little tune, a habit 
he always had in any athletic contest, adjusting 
the time of the little song to the swing of the oars. 

Hawke, watching the other crew warily, realiz- 
ing the long, hard mile that lay ahead, lowered 
his stroke from thirty-four to thirty-two, thus 
meeting the Franklin oarsmen stroke for stroke. 

90 


Tom Rows at Number Six 


Franklin, however, was beginning to apply that 
power of which Hapgood had spoken. Slowly but 
surely the brawny fellows began sending their 
boat up foot by foot. 

“All right. Steady, fellows !” Hawke’s vibrant 
word fairly shot in Tom’s ears. “Let ’em come; 
they don’t win the race here, you know. We’ve 
got it! We’ve got it! Let ’em come!” 

And come they did, a foot at a time, finally 
slipping by the Haledon sweep-swingers until 
their shell had the greatest lead of the race — 
three-quarters of a length. But the Haledonians 
kept cool; they had expected what they were 
getting. And still the Franklin shell forged for- 
ward. The coxswain, jerking his head backward 
and forward, his hands rigid on the steering- 
ropes, was on a level with Tom’s eye. Presently, 
as great roars of acclaim came from the rumbling 
observation-train, the Franklin rudder assumed 
a line with the Haledon bow. 

“Steady, men! Steady!” 

But blood was pulsing into Tom’s brain. He 
wanted to grit his teeth and flail his oar madly 
and put that rival boat back where it belonged. 
He seemed to feel the strength of a giant in his 
arms. But still that thin, sharp voice calling, 
“Steady!” 


91 


The Big Game 

Now here was where the great Franklin crews 
usually won their races, be they two-mile or four. 
Haledon was fully expected now to fall farther 
and farther astern, rowed down and beaten out. 
But Haledon didn’t fall back. While roars of 
encouragement to the Franklin crew came from 
the observation-train, while appeals of “Make it 
clear water!” were heard, the Franklin shell was 
unable to get her rudder clear of the rival bow. 

The Franklin coxswain was clearly thinking. 
Tom could almost hear his thoughts. 

“Haledon is hanging on. Haledon has not 
really spurted yet. Hence she must have a spurt 
lurking in her system. Better draw it out and 
leave her nothing for the finish.” 

Accordingly he raised the stroke to thirty- 
two — this at the mile-and-a-half — and called for 
increased pressure, which Haledon was now forced 
to answer lest she be left too far astern to re- 
trieve lost distance. 

So as the shells approached the mile-and-three- 
quarters — Shelburne now laboring along six lengths 
astern of Haledon — the bow of the Haledon boat 
still clung tenaciously to the Franklin rudder. 
Ahead the Haledon coxswain could see the group 
of craft anchored at the finish, and the observa- 
tion-train was scuttling ahead to clear a small 
92 


Tom Rows at Number Six 


hill that shut off the course just above the final 
stake-boat. 

Now, obviously, was the time for everything 
that his crew had. He jerked his head back and 
forth, screaming through his megaphone. And 
stroke by stroke the swing was raised until the 
oars were flailing thirty-six to the minute. 

“Haledon ! Haledon ! Haledon! Haledon!” 
The little coxswain seemed to be giving up his 
soul with every cry, while the oarsmen, cruel 
lines now drawing their faces, fought as they 
had never fought before in their lives. 

Tom felt fierce, stabbing pains in his abdomen. 
His head seemed ready to burst at the temples. 
Yet he swung back and forth, instinctively re- 
membering the technic of every part of the stroke 
from catch to recovery and yet rowing auto- 
matically, without conscious thought. He did 
not know whether his eyes were open or shut. 
His sensations were merely a feeling of tremendous 
endeavor, of water that looked like a sea of blood, 
of gyrating bare bodies, and, above all, the scream- 
ing voice of the coxswain in his ears. Also, the 
voice of the rival coxswain, for the two shells 
were now close together, ripping through the 
waters in a blur of sound. 

But the Haledon shell was pulling up. The 

93 


The Big Game 

spurt which had been held for the last — that 
immense final effort which had been so carefully 
stored — was now in action. As a maelstrom of 
shouts and whistle-blasts came over the waters 
the Haledon shell drew up. Tom, as it were 
through a haze, again caught a glance of the cox- 
swain of the other shell. He had the impression 
of a succession of oars at his side. 

“Now! Now! Now!” Hawke’s voice was 
the cry of an enraged bittern. “Now ! Haledon ! 
Haledon! Haledon! Haledon wins !” 

But Franklin, spurred to frenzy, was answering 
swing for swing. There was no longer any row- 
ing in the technical meaning of the word. The 
two crews were simply slugging one another out. 
It was nothing but a fight. And every oarsman 
was giving more than he really had; they were 
exhausting that store of energy and spirit which 
seems to come, as it were, from outside the men; 
they were doing more than could humanly be 
asked of any young men. 

Up flashed the Franklin boat. The two shells 
were upon even terms. But it is probable that 
no one but the coxswains knew it. The men 
were concentrated mentally and physically upon 
the sheer task of driving their oars with every 
ounce of strength they possessed. 

94 


Tom Rows at Number Six 


“Haledon! Now! Haledon! Five strokes! 
Five strokes and you win ! Five ! Are you 
ready ? One — for Haledon ! Two — ! Three — ! 
Four !” 

Then suddenly, as he swung back from his 
fifth stroke, a sudden darkness came to Tom. 
He jerked up and found some one splashing water 
over him. Astern Meacham was down too, and 
the man at bow. 

But, high above all, his face gloriously illumi- 
nated, standing erect in the shell, stood Hawke, 
the coxswain. 

“Up, boys,” he said in a strangely still, small 
voice. “Franklin is cheering for our victory. 
We’ve got to answer them.” 


95 


CHAPTER VIII 

Athlete-Hunting 

T OM returned to Haledon to find himself 
even more of a hero than when he left. 
His football and baseball ability were of course 
known, but he had also won his letter as an oars- 
man; provided his arm permitted him to pitch 
in any of the Shelburne or Baliol series, he would 
have accomplished something absolutely unique 
in the history of Haledon athletics — made his 
letter in three major sports in the course of a 
college year. 

The crew reached Haledon at night and the 
entire student body was at the station to greet 
them. Red fires were burning along the tracks 
and the campus walks, and the glow of a great 
mass of burning barrels and fence-rails which 
freshmen had spent the day collecting cast lurid 
shadows upon the walls of the college buildings. 
There was a parade with a band, and at the end 
speeches around the fire. Tom, last of all, was 
lifted up to the improvised rostrum, while the 
night air shook with cheers. Tom had a sort 
96 


Athlete-Hunting 

of diffidence about raising his voice in public, but 
it was a failing he was trying to conquer, if only 
because of the fact that he was looking forward 
to a career in the legal profession. 

“ Fellows,” he said, “Captain Wainwright, the 
coach, and everybody else, has been telling you 
how the race was rowed and how it was won. I 
can’t add a word to that. But I can tell you 
about something that struck me as pretty fine. 
After the race, when we picked up our oars and 
rowed toward the boat-house, the Franklin crew, 
beaten in a race they expected to win, waved 
their hands at us and gave us a cheer. And at the 
same time, away back in the distance, we could 
hear the discouraged and beaten-out Shelburne 
eight yelling for Haledon. I don’t know how 
you feel, but that thing was the greatest event 
of the day for me. It was sport, and somehow 
or other a big lump came up into my throat. It 
made me feel that sometime, even if I sit in a 
losing boat or play on a losing team, I can take 
a lot of sting out of the beating by sitting up 
gamely and cheerfully and giving a shout of com- 
pliment for the chaps who were good enough to 
beat us.” 

There were more cheers, and Tom the follow- 
ing Saturday had opportunity to think of his 
97 


The Big Game 

brave words when the Shelburne nine came to 
Haledon for the first of a three-game series and 
pounded Arbuthnot and Roy out of the lot, the 
score being eleven to three in favor of the visitors. 
Tom, in his ordinary attire, sat on the bench with 
the team, and toward the end of the game Mangin, 
who had not been any too cordial to Tom, turned 
to him with a scowl. 

“You’ve heard of Bone-setter Reese, haven’t 
you? Well,” he went on, as Tom nodded, “he’s 
in New York now looking after a couple of the 
Giants’ pitchers. He’s no doctor, but he knows 
more about throwing arms than any medic I 
ever saw. He’s coming down here to-morrow 
specially to see you. How has your shoulder 
felt?” 

“No feeling at all,” said Tom. “I haven’t 
even thrown a stone since I quit playing.” 

“All right,” returned the coach, “we’ll see 
what Reese says.” He glanced gloomily at the 
field, where a Shelburne man was romping to 
second on a long drive. “I certainly hope you 
come around. We certainly need you all right. 
None of our pitchers had anything but their 
gloves to-day.” 

The famous bone-setter arrived in the after- 
noon just before practice and went about his 
98 


Athlete-Hunting 

examination in a manner of his own. At length 
he turned to Mangin. 

“You say the docs said he had chipped his 
shoulder playing football ?” he asked, as his strong 
fingers pressed into Tom’s arm. “Well, there’s 
nothing to that at all. All he’s done was to get 
a little cold up here and left the muscles sensitive. 
The rest he’s had hasn’t done him any harm, 
but from now on he ought to pitch carefully every 
day for two weeks, with massage after every 
work-out. Then he’ll be all right.” 

“What do you know about that!” grinned 
Mangin. “All right, Tom, you begin right now. 
You’ll get into the Baliol games anyway.” 

That the specialist’s judgment was sound was 
convincingly demonstrated in the days that fol- 
lowed. Under the careful eye of the coach he 
pitched to the batters day after day, and the 
very fact of his presence seemed to fill the team 
with new life and ambition. Cartwright was in 
his best form in the Wednesday game against 
Oxford and the team turned in a well-played 
victory. 

On the following Saturday the team was to 
go to Shelburne, in New England, for a return 
game and Tom was ordered by the coach to pre- 
pare to make the trip with the team, although 
99 


The Big Game 

there was no chance of his participating in the 
game. The coach had noted the mental effect 
which his return to the squad had exerted on the 
players. 

Friday morning, as Tom came to his room 
from a lecture by his favorite professor and friend 
Doctor Witherspoon, he found two strangers 
awaiting him. They were middle-aged men of 
the prosperous Wall Street type and they greeted 
Tom with great cordiality. 

“My name,” said one of them rising, “is Saw- 
yer, *91, and this is Mr. Rathburn, ’95.” 

Tom, who had heard of both of them as prom- 
inent New York alumni, nodded and smiled. 

“I understand,” said Sawyer, “that you will 
go with the team to Shelburne, but that you won’t 
be able to do any pitching.” 

“That’s true, sir,” replied Tom, searching the 
two men with rather a puzzled expression on his 
face. 

“What do you expect to do this summer?” 
Sawyer, whose manner was crisp and blunt, 
searched Tom with his sharp, steel-gray eyes. 

“I’m going back to Annandale,” Tom replied. 
“You see, my father has a store out there and 
we are great friends. I always count upon spend- 
ing my summers with him.” 


100 


Athlete-Hunting 

“I see.” Sawyer nodded. “I don’t know, 
Kerry, whether or not you’ve ever heard of Doc- 
tor Simcoe’s camp near Wells, Vermont.” 

Tom said that he had. 

“ Several of the football team were there last 
summer, I believe. It’s quite a Haledon place, 
isn’t it?” 

“It’s run solely in the interests of Haledon,” 
replied the other. “We — that is, a group of alumni 
— are back of it. You see we make it a practice 
to get as many of the good preparatory-school 
athletes up there as we can, the idea being to 
shape them toward Haledon. Of course there 
are enough other boys who go to make the camp 
a paying proposition.” 

“Then,” asked Tom, “it doesn’t cost the good 
preparatory-school athletes anything?” 

“No,” Rathburn broke in; “on the contrary, 
we pay them. They are appointed counsellors 
and they make rather a good thing out of it. The 
only trouble is that other camps, interested per- 
haps in other seats of learning, make them offers, 
too.” 

“Now, Kerry,” said Sawyer, leaning toward 
Tom, “we want you to go to the Simcoe camp 
this year as a counsellor. We’ll pay you a 
salary ” 


IOI 


The Big Game 

“You mean expenses,” interrupted Rathburn, 
catching an expression upon Tom’s face. 

“Expenses, of course,” rejoined Sawyer hur- 
riedly. “Your name and reputation will be an 
attraction, and, in fact, we count on you a 
lot.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tom returned, “but I have to 
go to Annandale. And anyway I don’t want to 
be away from father all summer. You see, he’s 
the only close relation I have.” 

“Tom,” — Rathburn came to the young man, 
who stood, tall and rangy, in the middle of the 
room, his crinkly blond head erect, — “this is for 
the good of Haledon, a matter of college loyalty. 
You’ve made a big rep at Haledon in the little 
time you’ve been here. You’ve done a lot for 
the university — but the university’s done a lot 
for you. Now you can do a big turn for us. With 
your name down as supervisor of pitching and 
backfield play we’ll attract a lot of boys we’re 
after. As for your father, why don’t he come 
on and spend say a month or six weeks — or as 
long as he likes — at the camp with you?” 

This rather interested Tom. It was fearfully 
hot in Annandale in the summer and business 
would be slack. Perhaps the change would do 
his father good. 


102 


Athlete-Hunting 

“I tell you,” Tom said, after a moment’s 
thought. ‘Til write to him and if he’ll go I 
will.” 

“Good!” The two men moved toward the 
door. “We’ll drop down here again the middle 
of next week; and remember,” Sawyer went on, 
“it’ll be a big blow to Haledon’s future prospects 
if you don’t make it. As to expenses ” 

“I don’t want any expenses except my father’s 
car-fare to Vermont and back,” smiled Tom, 
“and of course our board. I made enough money 
this year to loaf during vacation and that was 
what I intended to do.” 

“All right,” was Sawyer’s genial reply. “Oh, 
one more thing: I wish you’d drop down to Bel- 
more — that’s one of the big New England prep 
schools, you know — after the game on Saturday 
night. There are three men there who graduate 
in June.” Sawyer took a slip from his pocket 
and glanced at it. “There’s Flynn, a crack pitcher; 
Lyons, a tackle; and Ferguson, a quarterback. 
They were headed for Haledon, but here’s a clip- 
ping from a Boston newspaper which says all are 
going to enter Baliol. Look them up and talk 
to them, will you ? You can talk Haledon, I 
imagine, and coming from you it’ll be all the 
stronger. They may have changed about the 
103 


The Big Game 

camp, too; you see they were solid for Simcoe’s 
up to a week ago.” 

“All right,” said Tom, “I’ll be glad to do any- 
thing I can.” 

Sawyer took a roll of bills from his pocket and 
began taking off several bank-notes. 

“This will pay your hotel-bill over Saturday 
night — the team’s coming home right after the 
game — and this will pay your car-fare.” 

Tom took the fifty dollars which were handed 
to him and promptly gave back twenty-five of 
it. 

“The trip won’t cost any more than that,” 
he said, “and if there’s any change I’ll give it 
to you when you come down next week.” 

“All right.” Sawyer smiled a curious smile 
and the two men went out. 

“He seems to be a pretty rigid sort of a chap,” 
said Rathburn. , 

“Yes.” Sawyer shrugged. “I wonder what 
he’s getting here ?” 

“I don’t believe he’s getting a cent,” was the 
reply. “I’ve looked him up pretty thoroughly.” 

Sawyer laughed. 

“You always were innocent. Here’s the best 
fullback and pitcher in the Middle West — in 
Haledon. You mean to say you believe that 
104 


Athlete-Hunting 

gag of his working his way through! Pshaw! 
He’s merely cagey, that’s all. And the fellows 
behind him are still more so. Stars don’t come 
so cheaply these days, my boy.” 

Rathburn shook his head dubiously. 

“Maybe so. Maybe so, Charlie. They don’t 
seem to be afflicted with any lack of financial 
sense — that’s a fact. It’s a rotten situation, 
though.” 

“Yes, it is rotten,” admitted Sawyer. “But 
we’ve got to go in for it or get out of intercol- 
legiate athletics. You don’t think Kerry’s backers, 
whoever they are, regretted any money Kerry is 
costing them when he won that Shelburne game 
last year and helped give Baliol the worst beating 
we ever handed out to them.” 

All of which, as those who have followed Tom 
Kerry’s career thus far will know, was doing him 
a great injustice. He had, as a matter of fact, 
been approached by representatives of various 
seats of learning when he was in the Annandale 
High School, but had decided that he would de- 
velop into a bigger man, more self-respecting 
and stronger, if he entered Haledon on his own 
feet and paid through his own efforts for every- 
thing he got. In this decision he had been helped 
by Enoch Chase and his friend Warburton, two 
105 


The Big Game 

high-minded Haledon men, former athletes, who 
were prominent manufacturers in Columbus and 
had been sufficiently fortunate to meet Tom at 
the time of his greatest temptation. 

It was, in fact, to Enoch Chase that Tom sent 
a long day telegram telling of the offer he had 
received concerning the summer camp, the terms 
and the like. He admitted he was attracted, but 
asked for advice. At the same time he wrote 
by post to his father, setting forth the situation. 
Then, hastily packing his bag at the training- 
house and accompanied by the team, he went 
to the railroad station. 

Shelburne, on her home grounds, with some 
fifteen thousand roaring partisans about the 
field, took the second game from Haledon by a 
score of two to one. Tom was sent into the game 
in the ninth inning as a pinch hitter and his sharp 
single sent in the tying run. But a three-bagger 
in the tenth inning, followed by a single, gave 
Shelburne the winning run. Thus by winning 
two straight games a third contest, which was to 
have been played in New York, was rendered 
unnecessary and Haledon had nothing to do but 
to look forward to the Baliol games, which in 
every way were the really important games of 
the Haledon series. 


106 


Athlete-Hunting 

The team, somewhat discomfited, took the 
train en route for New York and Haledon, while 
Tom, going to another station, bought tickets 
for Belmore, where he arrived about ten o’clock, 
taking lodgings in a small inn opposite the school 
campus. The five-hundred-odd students were 
coming from chapel when Tom had finished his 
breakfast, and, inquiring his way to Flynn’s room, 
he found that young athlete lying on a divan. 

“My name is Kerry,” said Tom; “I dropped 
down from the Shelburne game to see you — also 
Ferguson and Lyons. Could we foregather any- 
where, the three of us ?” 

But Flynn, a shrewd-faced, broad-shouldered 
Irish boy was on his feet. 

“Mr. Kerry, of Haledon?” he said — then 
paused. “But of course — I’d know you from 
your pictures. Say, I’ll get Fergy and Mike 
Lyons, but just before that I want to ask you 
something. How’s your arm now?” 

“Was that what you wanted to ask me?” 
grinned Tom. “Well, the arm is coming around 
all right. I’ll get into the Baliol games.” 

“That’s great!” was the earnest reply. “It 
was a crime you couldn’t get into the game against 
Shelburne. That Giant game you pitched was 
a corker.” Tom found that the young fellow 
107 


The Big Game 

was more familiar with Tom’s statistical record 
in that game in New York than he was himself. 
He began to suspect the shrewdness of Sawyer 
and Rathburn in sending him to this preparatory 
school. He found himself a veritable hero. He 
had to be introduced to the members of the Bel- 
more nine, to trainers, coaches, and football- 
players. It was in fact necessary for him to en- 
gage the three athletes whom he had come to 
see for a luncheon in a private room of the inn, 
there being no other opportunity of talking to 
them privately. 

But while waiting in Ferguson’s room for the 
arrival of lunch-hour, surrounded by a crowd of 
athletes of the preparatory school, a tall young 
man, of perhaps thirty, elbowed his way to Tom. 

“Mr. Kerry,” he said, “Doctor Winter, the 
head master, would like to see you for perhaps 
half an hour, if you can spare the time.” 

Tom glanced at his watch and, informing the 
three boys whom he had engaged for luncheon 
that he would meet them at the inn promptly 
at the designated hour, he left in the wake of 
Doctor Winter’s secretary for the head master’s 
offices. 

Doctor Winter was by no means an old man. 
His keen, gray, bespectacled eyes gleamed out 
108 


Athlete-Hunting 

from under bushy brows. His face was smoothly 
shaven. 

“Mr. Kerry,” he began, “I can imagine the 
source of our indebtedness for the honor of your 
visit.” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Tom. “I came up to learn 
why three of your students have decided to go 
to Baliol instead of Haledon.” 

“So they’ve decided on Baliol now!” Doctor 
Winter sighed. “They alter their intentions so 
rapidly that there’s no way of keeping up with 
them.” 

“Is that so, sir?” Tom gazed curiously at 
the schoolmaster. 

“Yes, it is — quite so.” Doctor Winter nodded 
emphatically. Then, leaning forward in his chair, 
he searched Tom with his keen eyes. 

“Mr. Kerry,” he said at length, “I have the 
very great good fortune of knowing something 
about you — I don’t mean in the ordinary way. 
I am an Oxford graduate, but my wife’s uncle 
is Professor Witherspoon of Haledon, and through 
him I have, as I say, heard about you. Do you 
know — or at least I hope you appreciate — what 
a good friend of yours Doctor Witherspoon is?” 

“I think I do,” replied Tom simply. “My 
visits in his study have been among the pleasantest 
109 


The Big Game 

and most helpful experiences of my life at Hale- 
don/’ 

“Yes, of course.” Doctor Winter nodded. 
“He has interested me greatly in your career 
and I wish to say I have respected your — your — 
efforts in every way. So much so that Fm going 
to lay before you a situation, and when you have 
grasped it thoroughly I want you to go to Hale- 
don and ponder it. Perhaps in good time you 
will see your way to live up to opportunities, or 
say better to one great opportunity which most 
certainly confronts you. I don’t know how you 
will feel about it. You may object to being a 
martyr for a cause. Or, assuming there is no 
martyrdom, you may object to taking a stand 
which in its effects may prove very disturbing 
to the little world you now occupy. I think, 
though — in fact, I am certain — that I am pro- 
ceeding wisely in speaking to you.” 

“I hope so,” replied Tom, puzzled. “Any- 
thing I can do for you I’m sure I’d like to do.” 

Doctor Winter laughed. 

“Let’s see about that,” he said. Then he began 
to unfold his idea. 


no 


CHAPTER IX 

A Little Light on Professionalism 

A S I understand you, Mr. Kerry,” said the 
head master, “you are here in behalf of 
Haledon’s athletic interests. Your intention is 
to confer with some of my young men who 
have shown an annoying tendency to complete 
their education in seats of learning other than 
Haledon, and, if possible, induce them to redirect 
their course to your alma mater.” 

“Why, yes, sir,” Tom replied, studying the 
man. “Three of your students have struck us 
as desirable assets to future baseball nines and 
football elevens and if possible we want them 
to play with us instead of against us.” 

Doctor Winter nodded and smiled. 

“A perfectly natural, not to say laudable, de- 
sire. Now may I ask you what inducements you 
are prepared to offer them ?” 

“Inducements !” Tom regarded Doctor Winter 
with undisguised curiosity. “Oh, I understand.” 
He laughed. “Why, Pm simply going to show 
hi 


The Big Game 

them why and how Haledon is the best university 
on earth; at least I’m going to tell them about 
the fine time I’ve had there, and the opportuni- 
ties that exist for boys who will be obliged to 
work their way through college.” 

“And is that all?” As Tom glanced at him, 
puzzled, Doctor Winter went on. “You mean 
you expect to get these athletes on the basis of 
working their way through Haledon?” The 
man leaned forward. “Mr. Kerry, I ask you in 
all sincerity, without desiring to affront you — 
does what you have said complete your list of 
inducements ?” 

“I don’t think I quite understand you,” Tom 
returned. 

“Well, then,” proceeded Doctor Winter pa- 
tiently, “haven’t you something concrete, some- 
thing definite, to offer these men ? In other words, 
aren’t you prepared to make it worth their while 
economically to go to Haledon?” 

“If you mean, am I going to offer them money, 
or its equivalent,” came Tom’s prompt answer, 
“I can say I am not. You said, Doctor Winter, 
that you had followed my career, that you knew 
something about me — do you think it was neces- 
sary to ask me that question ?” 

Doctor Winter arose and began pacing the 
1 12 


A Little Light on Professionalism 

floor, humming to himself, his broad, shining 
forehead wrinkled in a frown. 

“No, frankly, I didn’t think it was necessary, 
Mr. Kerry, and yet — ” he paused, “and yet I 
was wondering how on earth you expect to get 
them otherwise.” 

“You mean ?” 

“I mean, Mr. Kerry,” interrupted the other, 
“that you have not the slightest chance on earth 
of drawing those men to Haledon on the basis 
of general attractiveness of your university, or 
of opportunity, however bright, of their working 
their way through, that may exist there.” 

“Then,” Tom said doggedly, “they can go 
wherever they want to, so far as I am concerned.” 

The head master continued walking up and 
down the room for several minutes, while Tom 
gazed out the window upon the beautiful tree- 
shaded campus with the heavy June sunlight 
sifting through the foliage to the turf. At length 
the man sat down and placed his hands upon 
his knees. 

“Mr. Kerry,” he said, “I’m going to present 
to you a situation that is all too wide-spread, I’m 
afraid. However that may be, I’m going to limit 
what I say to Belmore — because I know whereof 
I speak. First of all, then, I wish to point out to 


The Big Game 

you that in Belmore we have two sorts of students 
who are proficient in athletics. There are those 
who come here headed for one university or an- 
other, principally because of hereditary inclina- 
tion — their fathers, perhaps their grandfathers, 
are alumni of one institution or another. As a 
consequence, neither prominence, nor athletic 
prestige, nor anything else will serve to sway 
them from their choice. These, however, are in 
the minority — usually a very great minority. 
The majority of our fine athletes — strange as it 
may seem — are either downright poor or of ex- 
tremely limited means. Now, these last can be — 
and, in fact, are — swayed to one seat of higher 
learning or another by various considerations, 
always, indirectly if not directly, financial in 
their nature. ,, 

Doctor Winter swung around to his desk, took 
a paper from his drawer, studied it a moment, 
and then, laying it aside, went on: 

“I think I may assert, Mr. Kerry, that the 
situation in the great preparatory schools — or 
at least in this school, where, I fancy, conditions 
are about the same as elsewhere — is fast approach- 
ing the point where many athletes of ability have 
their price. In fact, I think I risk little in saying 
that we have already reached such a stage.” 

114 


A Little Light on Professionalism 

“Is that so!” ejaculated Tom, staring at the 
man. 

“Yes, I firmly believe that it is so. Hardly 
a day passes, from the football season to the end 
of the spring term, that I do not receive frag- 
ments of gossip or more tangible information 
that convinces me of the truth of what I say. 
And yet the difficulty is to prove it.” 

“Well, sir, if it cannot be proved,” Tom inter- 
jected, “isn’t that fair reason for believing that 
it isn’t true ? ” 

Doctor Winter shook his head. 

“That is precisely the way I put it to myself 
for several years,” he replied. “But I have come 
to realize that such an attitude was merely casuis- 
try, that I was blinking the facts as they existed. 
While I still lack a sufficient amount of proof 
to take a definite course of action — even if I con- 
sidered it advisable to do so — I can say that my 
evidence is at least sufficient to convince me of 
the necessity of such course.” 

Tom regarded the man thoughtfully. 

“You speak of the necessity of action,” he 
said, “and at the same time seem to doubt its 
advisability.” 

“Precisely.” Doctor Winter inclined his head. 
“Belmore’s situation with regard to the drawing 
ri 5 


The Big Game 

of students is not different from that of seats of 
higher learning. We require, I regret to say — 
or at least our alumni seem to think so — our fair 
share of victories on the athletic field in order 
that Belmore’s attractions may be potent in the 
eyes of prospective preparatory schoolboys. 

“I have the suspicion that our trustees, some 
of them at least, incline to the same point of view. 
What is the result ? You cannot have a commer- 
cial atmosphere such as this and not have it per- 
meate the entire student body, giving them all 
distorted ideas and coloring their perspectives in 
most evil hue.” 

“I should say not,” was Tom’s comment. 

“Now, as to Joe Flynn, that pitcher whom you 
are to see,” proceeded Doctor Winter. “I am 
in a position to tell you something about him. 
The condition under which he was to go to Hale- 
don was that he receive eight hundred dollars 
for employment during the time of four summer 
vacations at Haledon, and that this money was 
to be paid to him in advance at the beginning 
of every term.” 

Doctor Winter picked up a paper-cutter and 
balanced it on his fingers. 

“Not only that,” he went on, “but upon grad- 
uation he had the definite contracted promise 
116 



“The condition under which he was to go to Haledon was that 
he receive eight hundred dollars for employment.” 






















































































/ 











































A Little Light on Professionalism 

of employment at a salary better than most be- 
ginners get in a large factory.” 

“I see,” Tom said. “Yet apparently he has 
decided to pass Haledon by.” 

“That brings us to another phase,” smiled 
Doctor Winter. “I happen to know all about 
this case, because of certain facts that came into 
my possession. I corroborated those facts in 
a conversation with Flynn, who was very frank 
with me and, indeed, was surprised that I seemed 
to attach any importance to them. 

“Now,” he continued, “the college to which 
Flynn will probably go has a very engaging sys- 
tem. Alumni have established a number of 
scholarships, which pay a student say twelve 
hundred, perhaps fifteen hundred, dollars a year 
while he is in college, or, say better, while he is 
eligible for teams. These scholarships are known 
as ‘General Scholarship Funds for Deserving 
Boys.’ To make it more clear, most colleges 
have scholarship funds applied to certain dis- 
tricts, or, for that matter, to certain schools. 
These funds may be used only in those districts, 
or in those schools, and the scholarships which 
they represent are awarded, practically without 
exception, on the basis of excellence in scholar- 
ship. As the name implies, these funds are 
ii 7 


The Big Game 

strictly intended to promote the scholastic spirit. 
Now, the General Scholarship Fund, to which I 
have referred, belies its name. It is really a 
general athletic fund. It may be devoted to 
paying sums of money to athletes wherever they 
may be found. It is this fund of which Flynn, for 
one, and probably Lyons and Ferguson, are pro- 
spective beneficiaries. ,, 

Doctor Winter raised his hand. 

“It is a wholly iniquitous proceeding. It puts 
an unhealthy premium upon athletics in places 
where athletics certainly should be subsidiary 
and creates really a set of hardened, mercenary 
professionals among boys who at least in their 
formative years should be free of such influences.” 

Doctor Winter made a little gesture. “I am 
going to keep you but a moment longer.” He 
again picked up the paper which lay on his desk 
and advanced to Tom. “Now, as I say, I have 
some considerable private means, and I have de- 
voted some of my money this year to tracing the 
scope and methods of our modern athletic system.” 

“You mean,” Tom interpolated, “that you 
have there names of players who are in colleges 
on a financial basis ?” 

“Yes, on a financial basis, or because of other 
reasons that do not jibe with conditions as they 
118 


A Little Light on Professionalism 

should exist. Now,” he went on, “I have al- 
ways believed that no revolution can succeed 
that does not come from within. If the facts 
contained in this memorandum — all of which 
can be proved legally in a court of law — impress 
you with a sense of the vast and growing com- 
mercialized basis upon which our present-day 
athletics rest, if they convince you of the need 
for action — then, then, Tom Kerry, I look to you 
to begin that revolution from within.” 

“I!” Tom stood erect, startled. 

“Yes, you. You came to Haledon — perhaps 
the best athlete of your generation — and work 
your way, pay for every step, taking nothing 
that you are not able to earn through legitimate 
endeavor. At your side are men who are literally 
kept athletes — oh, yes, you have them in Haledon, 
or will have them next fall, men who would be 
in Baliol, or Shelburne, or Oxford, or anywhere 
if their terms had been better than Haledon’s. 
You are going through your college career laying 
a foundation of decency and respectability and 
independence. You have developed, are still 
developing, your character through the necessity 
of sheer hard work. You have none of that 
weakness that comes of a willingness to traffic 
with deceit and bargain with dishonor. You 
119 


The Big Game 

have hardened your fibre, as every boy should 
do” 

Doctor Winter paused a moment, fixing Tom 
with his eyes. 

“It is not right that the ways should be greased 
for any boy. It gives him the wrong view-point, 
unfits him for life. Can you imagine the moral 
wear and tear upon the boy who plays by your 
side, receiving substantial consideration of one 
sort or another therefor, knowing that you are 
not receiving those considerations, and knowing, 
too, that he must proceed every foot of his career 
through college by stealth? Faugh!” Doctor 
Winter tossed his hands. “It’s disgusting and 
discouraging — the entire rotten system. Now, 
Mr. Kerry, I am going to place these facts in 
your hands; they are a carbon copy. I have 
others. In fact, I have already placed a copy 
in the hands of several boys, in Baliol, Shelburne, 
and elsewhere, who were under me here at Bel- 
more.” 

Doctor Winter walked toward the door. 

“What will they do with them ? I don’t know. 
I can only hope; they are all influential athletes. 
What will you do ? Who can say ? I but ask you 
to study and ponder and digest the facts you will 
read and then fashion and direct your own course. 

120 


A Little Light on Professionalism 

That is all, Mr. Kerry — and I thank you. Now 
you may go to meet your friends. By the way, 
do you mean to say that you had no definite in- 
structions to give those three students ?” 

“Yes, sir,” replied Tom sharply. “I think I 
already told you that.” His voice was sharp, 
for he was deeply moved. He thought a mo- 
ment. Then he felt in his pocket. “But I have 
a letter to give to each of them,” he said. “I 
forgot all about it.” 

Doctor Winter laughed loudly. 

“Of course,” he said, “you know who gave 
you those letters.” 

“Why, certainly.” Tom was frowning ques- 
tioningly. 

“Well, then,” the head master proceeded, still 
laughing, “I don’t ask you who those writers 
were, but when you get time glance at this mass 
of memoranda I now give you and see if you 
find their names among those of some of Hale- 
don’s more generous — and versatile — alumni pa- 
trons of budding athletes. In the meantime, if 
you write, asking me to do so, I’ll submit further 
evidence as I receive it.” 

“All right, sir.” Tom stepped to the door. 
“I’ll write and let you know.” 

Thus saying and with a hearty handshake, he 


121 


The Big Game 

left Doctor Winter’s office and hurried across 
the campus to the inn, where the three athletes 
were waiting. 

They did most of the talking in the course of 
the luncheon. When the meal had been finished 
Tom took from his pocket the three letters. 

“I guess,” he said, “I came up here under 
some sort of a misunderstanding. I wanted to 
urge you to come to Haledon, but I begin to think 
that any reasons I might have to offer would 
not prove attractive. Mr. Sawyer and Mr. Rath- 
burn wanted me to speak to you; but I don’t 
feel there is anything I can say. Their letters” — 
he tossed one to each — “will probably say more 
than is necessary. My advice on the spur of the 
moment is that if anything those letters say give 
you some inclination to come to Haledon, why, 
you’d better resist it.” 

“You mean,” said Lyons, “that you don’t 
want us to come ?” 

“I mean,” flashed Tom, “that I want you to 
come right; to come on your own feet as men 
who are willing to pay their way and at the same 
time work for Haledon and love Haledon be- 
cause it is the best and most beautiful place on 
earth. I want you to come, willing to fight to 
be able to stay in the university. You will go 


122 


A Little Light on Professionalism 

there to learn to prepare yourself for the world, 
for life. You’ll not be kept when you go out from 
college; you’ll stand on your own feet, for what 
you are as men and not as athletes. Why not 
begin at Haledon in that way ? Haledon, after 
all, is a part of life, some say the most important 
part — I mean any college. Are you willing to 
take the risk of being staked and helped at a 
time when you ought to be learning how to help 
yourselves ? You think it over, fellows. Mean- 
while, I’ve got to hurry for my train.” He paid 
the waiter and went out of the room. 

As he left Flynn gazed dazedly at his two com- 
panions. Then suddenly his face lightened. 

“I see what’s eating him!” he exclaimed. 
“He’s afraid if I come to Haledon I’ll do him 
out of his job as first-string pitcher.” 


123 


CHAPTER X 
Tom Gains an Ally 

OM, filled with his own thoughts, had al- 



JL most reached the railway station when he 
heard footsteps behind him. Looking back, he 
saw that it was Ferguson, the powerful lineman, 
one of the three men with whom he had just 
lunched. He was a strongly built fellow, with 
tremendous chest and shoulders and a rugged 
face, manifestly a young man — he was not a 
boy — who had been accustomed to hard work all 
his life. 

“Mr. Kerry,” he said, “Td like to talk to you 
if I could.” Tom, who was rather impatient 
with the whole situation, was not any too cordial. 
He knew of Ferguson as one of the most prominent 
linemen in the secondary schools and had read 
a great deal of newspaper gossip concerning his 
intended college career; several colleges had 
been named from time to time as objects of his 
choice. Tom was in no mood to dicker with him. 
So he glanced at his watch. 


124 


Tom Gains an Ally 

“The train is due now,” he said, “and so there 
isn’t a great deal of time. Is it anything very 
special ?” 

“Yes, I think it’s special,” was the reply. “If 
the train comes while we’re talking I’ll get on 
and ride down the line a bit. I need some ad- 
vice, I think, and you strike me as a fellow who’ll 
give it hot off the bat.” 

Tom smiled. 

“All right,” he said. “I’ll be glad if I can help 
you out in any way.” His idea, of course, was 
that Ferguson would set before him his perplexity 
concerning the merits of inducements which 
alumni of various seats of learning had offered 
him. As a consequence, he wa$ somewhat sur- 
prised at Ferguson’s opening remark. 

“I liked what you said in there.” He paused. 
“Now, I haven’t any great wish to go to college. 
In fact, I’ve gone far enough to understand that 
I might better have gone into business with my 
father two or three years back. You see, he runs 
a little foundry in western Pennsylvania, and 
as I’ve worked about it off and on since I was a 
kid I know the business pretty well. I can see 
how we could develop the plant, especially now 
with this war in Europe and the demand for metal 
products.” 

125 


The Big Game 

“Well/’ was Tom’s comment, “the education 
you’ve had won’t hurt you.” 

“No, it won’t,” replied Ferguson. “I am going 
to graduate from this place in June and while 
none of the studies has come easy to me — I’m 
no great shakes of a student — yet I haven’t for- 
got what I’ve learned. I’ve begun to think I’ve 
got all I need. I’ve got a foundation in Latin 
and French, in mathematics and other subjects. 
I’ve got more than I’ll ever use; but I know that 
isn’t the point. The point is that I’ve been taught 
to think from a bigger point of view; I have got 
a taste for good books, and have learned what 
has been the thought of the great men of all ages. 
In short, since I’ve got what Doctor Winter calls 
a good background of culture and am going into 
my father’s foundry, why should I go to college ?” 

“Why, to play football, of course,” was Tom’s 
cynical reply. 

“Sure!” Ferguson laughed. The train came 
into the station at the moment and the two 
boarded a car. “Sure,” he went on as soon as 
they were seated. “Now, there’s nothing I like 
to do so much as play football. But the point 
is — haven’t I played long enough ?” 

“Well,” returned Tom, “yoti’ll of course get 
a bigger rep playing college football. Your pic- 
126 


Tom Gains an Ally 

ture will be in the newspapers, and all that sort 
of thing.” 

“I don’t care anything about that,” Ferguson, 
whom Tom had begun to regard as a rugged, 
simple, sturdily honest fellow, continued. “If 
I went to college it would be to play football and 
do other things simply because I like the games.” 

“How old are you now?” asked Tom. 

“Well, I’m twenty-five,” confessed Fetguson, 
“which means that when I get out of college I’ll 
be nearly thirty. Now, since I feel that I’ve 
learned as much as I need to know I’m wonder- 
ing if I won’t be pretty much wasting my time ?” 

Tom, who had been studying the speaker, shook 
his head. 

“No. Ferguson, I think you’re the type of 
man that every college would value as an alum- 
nus. Simply because you’ll get a diploma at 
twenty-nine, instead of at twenty-two or three, 
doesn’t offset the value of that diploma. How 
do you know what it may mean to you, or to 
your children — or to your country ? I can imagine 
that you have thought all this out in just the way 
I have put it.” Tom eyed him shrewdly. “I 
guess your trouble is that things have occurred 
to mix you up and make you sore on the whole 
college game.” 


127 


The Big Game 

Ferguson smiled ruefully. 

“I guess you are right,” he admitted. “Now, 
a year ago when I began to make a rep at tackle — 
it took me two years to learn the darn game — 
a man came to me and said he was an alumnus 
of Cokedale — that’s out in my country.” 

“I know,” said Tom, who himself had been 
approached by an emissary of that seat of learn- 
ing. 

“Well, this fellow had looked into my case, 
and knew that pop’s foundry was a dinky affair, 
and that I was working my way through Bel- 
more. So he offered me a good summer job that 
year, saying I could have it every year until I 
got out of Cokedale, when I could get regular 
employment as a superintendent. For each 
summer’s work I was to get a thousand dollars.” 

“I see.” Tom nodded. 

“I went there — that was last summer — and 
found that there wasn’t really a place for me, 
and that all I had to do was to report each morn- 
ing and hang around doing odd little jobs; they 
were jobs for which I should have been paid a 
dollar a day. I didn’t want money for nothing; 
so I called the thing off and went home, and 
worked in pop’s foundry for my board and 
clothes. 


128 


Tom Gains an Ally 

“Last fall,” he went on, “I played my best 
football. Since that time there hasn’t been a 
week when I haven’t been pestered by some one 
from seven or eight college teams that have bid 
for my services in various ways. Some of ’em 
have put it under the cloak of well-paid summer 
jobs with a fine job on graduation; others have 
offered straight-out scholarships of from a thou- 
sand to twelve hundred dollars; and your folks 
in this letter have intimated that each September 
in the future when I report to Haledon in good 
standing I’ll find a bank deposit in my name. 
Now,” he continued, “I’m kind of a slow thinker, 
and it takes me a long time to make up my mind 
about things. I’ve said ‘Yes’ to some of them 
when I meant no, and I’ve put others off with 
promises to think it over. Now, as it stands, I 
guess graduates of three or four colleges are hop- 
ing I’ll enter their places, and representatives of 
others are dead sure I’ll enter theirs. I can’t go 
to but one place, and yet they’ve all been so nice 
and generous that I’d like to go to all.” 

“And so,” laughed Tom, “you think you’ll 
settle it by going nowhere.” 

“That’s the point,” replied Ferguson earnestly. 
“I’m all mixed up, and right back of it all is the 
hunch that I ought to go home when I leave here 
129 


The Big Game 

and help pop out. He wants me, and will make 
me a partner. ,, 

Tom, gazing thoughtfully out of the window, 
asked slowly: 

“Is your experience different from that of 
most of the good athletes in these prep schools ?” 

“I don’t know any of the real good ones in 
Belmore who haven’t been approached in one 
way or another,” replied Ferguson. “And I 
suppose it’s the same way at other places.” 

“It’s a condition where the good ones are 
getting into a sort of professional class by them- 
selves,” suggested Tom. 

“I don’t know about the professional part of 
it,” said Ferguson. “They’re keen to look for 
any opportunities they find, though. And they’re 
not all poor boys, either. I know one chap whose 
father has got a bunch of money, yet he’s got 
his fingers in the pie. He entered Haledon last 
fall and played on the freshman team. Next 
fall he’ll be on the varsity.” 

Tom thought a moment. 

“You mean Stewart?” he asked. As Ferguson 
nodded, Tom asked for particulars and found 
that the men who had sent Tom on his present 
mission had been instrumental in swaying Stewart 
from Baliol — a shift which at the time had caused 
130 


Tom Gains an Ally 

considerable newspaper talk, and some little feel- 
ing between Haledon and Baliol alumni. 

“But Baliol can’t kick,” grinned Ferguson, 
who proceeded to regale Tom with information, 
some bom of personal knowledge and some of it 
hearsay — all of which, however, was extremely 
interesting — and illuminating to Tom. 

“To get back to the original problem,” said 
Tom at length, “you have committed yourself 
to so many colleges that I think the only thing 
to do is to go to one to which you have made no 
promises. That is, provided you wish to go 
through college.” 

“Well, I’m not so stuck on it, except for the 
football part,” growled Ferguson. “And I sup- 
pose I ought to be in the foundry with pop — 
that’s my place.” 

He arose from his seat as the train rounded 
a curve into the station. Tom arose, too. 

“For your own sake I’d suggest that you go 
into the foundry,” he said. “But for my sake 
I’d like to have you come into Haledon for at 
least a year or two — come clean-handed, that is, 
willing to work and pay your own way like a 
real man.” 

“Why do you want that?” asked Ferguson. 

“Because,” replied Tom grimly, “I’m going 


The Big Game 

to make a fight against this sort of thing; I may 
think Im a better fighter than I am. But if I’m 
as good as I think I am there’ll be some clean- 
ing up down at Haledon next fall. I’d like the 
help of a big, honest fellow like yourself — your 
mental and physical help, in addition to your 
help as an athlete. For,” he concluded, “ Hale- 
don may need some athletes when I get through.” 

Ferguson was looking at him intently, his 
heavy, rugged face lightened, as it were, with 
inspiration. Seeing it, Tom went on. 

“You would be doing something to justify 
yourself and your life right at the start. You 
would be fighting for clean athletics, for fair, 
above-board dealing; you would be fighting to 
root out a situation that can’t help but affect 
morally a lot of good, clean young fellows, a 
situation that in the end will absolutely kill in- 
tercollegiate sport. What do you say?” 

They were now on the car-platform, the train 
beginning to pull out. Ferguson thrust a big, 
hairy hand upward. 

“Kerry,” he said, “I’m with you. I always 
liked a fight; it’s the best thing I do, I reckon. 
I’ll go to Haledon and I’ll scrap to the last breath; 
and more than that — ” he added, “I’ll bring two 
or three good athletes down who feel as you do.” 

132 


Tom Gains an Ally 

“Good for you; I’ll count upon you.” Tom 
waved good-by and returned to his seat filled 
with all sorts of thrilling emotions. 

He was not a trouble-maker by nature. He 
had the fighting instinct, to be sure; but this 
did not cause him to seek unnecessary combat. 
In the present case he could see whither his in- 
tentions might lead him. There was a strong 
possibility of his making himself one of the most 
unpopular figures in university life; he could 
readily understand how anything that would 
affect the athletic prestige of Haledon would 
earn for itself the hatred of Haledon men. Of 
some Haledon men, that is. There were many 
who would applaud and back him if they were 
convinced his cause was right. 

He was honest enough, as he sat musing in the 
train, to admit that some of his strongest emotions 
concerning the situation were selfish, but on the 
other hand he had developed since he had been 
at Haledon a profound admiration for the scheme 
of intercollegiate athletics. He appreciated their 
qualities as developers of manhood. They taught 
quick thinking and coolness in emergencies; they 
emphasized the necessity of taking hard knocks 
in a sporting spirit and of hard, clean play. They 
placed a premium on physical fitness. Out of 
133 


The Big Game 

intercollegiate rivalry, as he could well see, was 
born a breed of men splendidly equipped to battle 
with life or, if need come, to serve their nation in 
war. This being the case, anything that served 
to sully sport — either commercializing influences 
or unfair tactics on the field of play — appealed 
to Tom as abhorrent and not to be endured. 

As for war, conflict was raging at high pitch 
in Europe, and there were growing indications 
that eventually the patient endurance by the 
United States of Germany’s high-handed mari- 
time measures might be exhausted. While the 
students were intent upon their own affairs there 
was naturally a great deal of attention paid to 
events on the other side of the ocean, and more 
than once in his morning addresses in chapel 
President Woolsey had referred to the need of 
augmented moral and physical strength of the 
young men of the nation against future trials. 
Who could tell when the test might come ? If 
such a situation did lie in the future it were bet- 
ter to leave things clean for succeeding genera- 
tions. There was a great thought here for the 
young athlete. 

It had better be done, he decided, from within, 
just as Doctor Winter had suggested, for once 
let a thing like this get outside the colleges and 
134 


Tom Gains an Ally 

into the hands of the public and there would be 
an upheaval undoubtedly which would sweep 
intercollegiate athletics out of existence. Sport 
had a sufficient number of enemies even as it 
was; no college faculty but included those who 
were dead against sport. 

“I guess,” soliloquized Tom, “that the sooner 
we get busy the better; for I can see the time 
coming when it will be too big for us to handle. 
Maybe it’s too big already.” He paused, shrug- 
ging. “Well, we’ll see.” 

He arrived at Haledon on Monday morning 
in time for chapel, and after he had breakfasted 
and attended his first lecture he sought audience 
with Doctor Poindexter, the dean of the college, 
who from the first had formed a strong liking 
for the stalwart young athlete. 

“Doctor Poindexter,” said Tom, “I’ve been 
learning things in the past few days.” 

“Is that so, Mr. Kerry?” smiled the officer, 
leaning back in his chair, expecting, no doubt, 
a reference to some point concerning the examina- 
tions which were then in progress. 

“Yes, sir. I’ve found that graduates of various 
universities make a practice of practically buy- 
ing the services of preparatory-school athletes. I 
have that information.” 

135 


The Big Game 

The dean regarded Tom quizzically. 

“So have I, Mr. Kerry. 1 ” 

“You have!’’ Tom half-arose and then sank 
back into his chair. “Then — you — of course 
intend to take some action to stop it.” 

“Why — ahem!” Doctor Poindexter swung 
around in his chair and gazed out the window, 
finally returning his eyes to Tom’s puzzled face. 
“What course of action would you suggest?” 

“Why, why,” Tom stammered, “why, I’d in- 
form the men who are in Haledon under such 
conditions that they are ineligible to play upon 
Haledon teams.” 

“Yes, quite so.” Doctor Poindexter smiled. 
“But the great difficulty, you see, Mr. Kerry, 
is to prove that those men are in Haledon under 
such conditions. For example, I may suspect 
that two or three of them might have gone else- 
where had it not been for — well, say for excellent 
missionary work in our behalf. I may even be- 
lieve that these chaps came here as a result of 
methods of which we do not approve. But it is 
another thing to demonstrate that such is the 
fact.” 

Tom, whose face was burning, arose from his 
chair, and walking to the desk laid- several sheets 
of paper upon it. 


136 


Tom Gains an Ally 

“ Doctor Poindexter, I think you’ll find here 
proof concerning not only several of our men, 
but of fellows in other colleges. You will find 
the name of Doctor Winter, of Belmore, who 
went in for this investigation on his own hook. 
I saw him yesterday and he seemed to think that 
if athletes who were in college on the level started 
a row the fight would be more effective. But I 
don’t think it’s our place — not now anyway.” 

The dean picked up the papers, adjusted his 
eye-glasses, and glanced hastily over the facts 
as set forth in Tom’s handwriting. He had re- 
tained the original copy as presented to him 
by Doctor Winter. Doctor Poindexter always 
hummed when he was perturbed. He was hum- 
ming now. 

“I see,” he said at length, “that the name of 
Justin Emery, who gave us our new hockey- rink 
and swimming-pool, appears here. He is a very 
influential alumnus.” 

“ Yes, he is,” Tom replied simply. The dean 
waited a moment, and then, as Tom said noth- 
ing, he cleared his throat. 

“All this, Mr. Kerry, is interesting and sur- 
prising — quite. I’m sure you appreciate the 

delicacy of the situation. I shall keep this matter 
for consideration and for conference with the 
137 


The Big Game 

president and the faculty. I am glad you came 
straight to me — I appreciate your motives and 
respect them.” 

“And you’ll let me know, sir, what you finally 
decide to — I mean, if you think this matter re- 
quires further proof, or anything of the sort.” 

“Oh, yes, yes, indeed; most certainly.” The 
dean nodded and placed the papers in his drawer. 
“How is your arm now?” 

Tom glanced at the man surprisedly. 

“Oh, I guess it’s all right, sir. The coach ex- 
pects to have me pitch in the Baliol series. I 
think I could have gone in against Shelburne 
but Mr. Mangin didn’t want to take the risk.” 

“No.” Doctor Poindexter turned to some 
papers lying on his desk, signifying dismissal 
and Tom, taking the hint, arose and, with a mur- 
mured “Good morning, sir,” went out into the 
hall. 

As the door closed behind him the dean rubbed 
his hands, smiling grimly. 

“Well, well,” he said, turning to Miss Sever- 
ance, his secretary, “for a man who delights to 
throw bombs into faculty meetings as deeply 
as I do, I suppose I should be radiant with joy, 
but somehow I’m not. I feel as one might feel 
who had his hand on the lever of an earthquake.” 

138 


Tom Gains an Ally 

“Mr. Kerry didn’t seem to feel so,” laughed 
the girl. 

“Mr. Kerry is a young man,” was the re- 
ply. The dean lifted his hand. “Oh, youth ! 
youth !” 


139 


CHAPTER XI 

Tom Returns to the Box 



DM had a faculty which is peculiar to all 


A men who know how to concentrate; he 
could at the proper time put a matter completely 
out of his mind and direct his thoughts upon 
other things. So now, with the matter of prepara- 
tory-school recruiting in the hands of Dean Poin- 
dexter, he decided that for the time being it 
would be well to leave it there and to occupy 
himself with other interesting concerns. There 
were, for instance, his examinations and, as a 
pleasant interlude, there was the practice of the 
nine for the first game of the Baliol series, which 
was to be played at Baliol the following Saturday. 

Mangin was a shrewd exponent of what is 
termed “inside ball.” Many a time his Haledon 
nines had won contests simply because the players 
had knowledge of devious little tricks designed 
to catch opponents napping or to tempt them 
to do things which caused them to fall into care- 
fully laid traps. Players of other college nines 
declared that Mangin was downright unfair and 


140 


Tom Returns to the Box 


that he taught his 'teams a brand of mucker ball. 
But, in reality, he did not. The expedients he 
taught were legitimate and were of a nature to 
sharpen and not stultify the minds of his men. 
Tom gained some idea of his shrewdness the first 
afternoon of his return to regular practice as a 
pitcher. He put on a big mitt and caught Tom’s 
delivery until he was satisfied that his pupil had 
retained all his pristine skill. 

“Now, Tom,” he said finally, “you’ll have to 
admit that your weak point is in letting base- 
runners steal on you. Most people have an idea 
that the catcher is at fault when a man steals 
second. He isn’t — not as a rule anyway. There 
is no catcher alive that can prevent a swift runner 
taking second, unless the pitcher helps him. What 
you have to learn to do is to prevent a man getting 
a lead; that’s always up to the pitcher. You 
keep a runner hugging first and you give your 
catcher a fifty-fifty chance to throw him out; 
not otherwise. You always seem to have the 
idea, Kerry, that you throw to first to catch a 
runner napping. Well, you don’t. Your main 
idea should be to fill him with caution, make 
him afraid to venture too far from the base. You 
haven’t done that very well, principally because 
the runners have always known when you were 
141 


The Big Game 

going to throw to first and when to the batter. 
Now I want you to try this.” Mangin walked 
out to the box and directed Tom to take the posi- 
tion of a runner on first. “You play off just as 
you would if you were running.” 

Tom played off and when it seemed to him 
that the coach was throwing the ball to the home- 
plate he ran down the base-line a bit, and then, 
to his surprise, found that the ball was coming 
to first. He dived for the bag and made it by 
a hair’s breadth. 

“But that was a balk!” cried Tom. 

“Anything is a balk that deceives the batter 
into thinking that the pitcher is going to deliver 
the ball to first,” said Mangin. “But the big- 
league umpires do not enforce the rule so strictly 
as all that, simply because swift base-runners 
could steal all they wanted to. So they give the 
pitcher a bit of latitude. You see the umpire 
did that in the last Shelburne game, in the case 
of Kittridge, their left-handed pitcher. But 
what I am doing is this: I step toward first base 
or toward the plate as I start to wind up. The 
runner can’t tell which. So he’ll have to be 
cautious. Now come over here and I’ll try to 
teach you.” 

They worked together for about an hour, and 
142 


Tom Returns to the Box 


when Tom ran to the shower-bath he was elated 
to feel that he was beginning to catch the hang 
of the idea. Behind him as he left the field-house 
was Mangin’s voice raised in great anger against 
Ransome, who had dropped a fly ball purposely 
because he had the idea that with a man on first 
and less than two out the batter who hit an in- 
field fly was automatically out. 

“ Don’t you ever pull a bone like that again, 
Ransome,” came the irate injunction. How 
many times have I got to tell you fellows that 
an infield fly is out only when there are two men 
on base and less than two out ? I wish, I wish 
you fellows would read the rules. How do you 
expect — ” etc., etc. 

It is always pleasant to hear the other fellow 
rebuked; at least ball-players seem to find it 
so, and Tom went out into the late-afternoon 
sunlight with a little amused smile playing about 
his lips. 

After dinner that evening he found in his room 
a message from one of the two graduates who 
had sent him to Belmore, Sawyer. He was at 
the Graduates Club, and Tom went there im- 
mediately. 

“I got your letter about 5 o’clock this after- 
noon,” he said after greeting Tom. “So I came 
143 


The Big Game 

right down on the 5.30 to ask you about it. You 
were not very explicit. You simply said you 
had delivered my letters and that you did not 
know how the boys felt about them.” 

Tom, while fully intending to do what he could 
to check such methods as Sawyer stood for, was 
by no means so bellicose as he had been prior 
to his interview with Doctor Poindexter. As he 
now regarded it, the matter was in the dean’s 
hands and while there he had nothing to do about 
it. Besides, he had had an afternoon of ex- 
hilarating baseball and was in no mood for dis- 
sension. So he smiled and nodded. 

“You gave me those letters sealed,” he said, 
“not telling me about their contents. I simply 
handed them to the Belmore chaps, and as they 
didn’t read them in my presence there wasn’t 
much I could say.” 

“We sent you up there,” Sawyer replied, “be- 
cause we thought your rep would make an im- 
pression. Did you present the claims of Hale- 
don?” 

“Oh, sure,” said Tom. “I told them what 
sort of a place it was, and the sort of men we 
wanted there. I don’t know whether they were 
impressed or not. That is, I know Ferguson was. 
He’s coming to Haledon.” 

144 


Tom Returns to the Box 


“He is!” Sawyer beamed. “Good work! I 
understood — well, I understood he was headed 
for at least six different places.” 

“Well, he’ll be here sure,” affirmed Tom. “I 
have his definite promise, and he strikes me as a 
chap who won’t go back on his word. As for the 
other two, I can’t say. You’ll probably get let- 
ters from them.” 

“Well, anyway, you’ve got Ferguson; he’s 
the best one of the three. Much obliged to you. 
By the way,” he added, as Tom turned to go, 
“you sent me a check for fifteen dollars in your 
letter. Do you mean to say that the trip cost 
you only ten dollars ?” 

“No, it cost more than that,” Tom returned, 
“but I didn’t feel that I had done everything to 
earn that money that you expected me to do, and 
so I charged you simply for my car-fare and not 
for expenses while I was in Belmore.” 

“Why didn’t you?” snapped Sawyer. “I 
thought we sent you to represent Haledon in every 
way possible.” 

Tom colored. 

“You mean you sent me to misrepresent her in 
every way possible, don’t you ?” he asked. 

“What do you mean by that, Kerry?” asked 
Sawyer angrily. 


145 


The Big Game 

“Why,” said Tom, smiling now, “you expected 
me to go up there and tell those boys how the 
ways would be greased for them at Haledon. ,, 

“I didn’t tell you to say anything of the sort.” 
Sawyer’s fat cheeks were red as turkey combs. 

“No, you didn’t. But” — Tom began to speak 
slowly — “you picked me out to go not alone be- 
cause of my alleged reputation but because you 
and a lot of others believe I am having the ways 
greased for me here in Haledon. You picked me 
out as a good example for the prep-school athletes 
who wanted to get aboard the graft wagon them- 
selves. Now let me tell you something, Mr. 
Sawyer,” Tom went on; “I’m in Haledon ab- 
solutely on the level. I can show you my books, 
which give my receipts and expenses while I have 
been in college. I am running a tutoring class, a 
restaurant-supply business, and a printing con- 
cern. I’ve never taken a cent for nothing from 
anybody. And I’m not going to.” Tom laughed, 
rather unpleasantly. “So you can see I was the 
worst man in the world to send to Belmore on that 
errand of yours.” 

Sawyer looked at Tom, his lips moving as though 
he meant to speak. But no words came. At 
length, moving toward the door, he managed to 
say that, since Tom appeared not to have the same 
146 



“ I’ve never taken a cent for nothing from anybody. And I’m 
not going to.” 



Tom Returns to the Box 


feeling for Haledon’s prestige that he and other 
strong alumni did, he at least could keep his 
mouth closed as to what was going on. Tom took 
care to say nothing. He left the club with a curt 
nod. 

His remarks to the man concerning his various 
interests reminded Tom that they required check- 
ing up. It was true that his greatest business ac- 
tivities had been confined to the winter, but all 
were still in operation; and while he employed 
bright undergraduates as assistants he realized 
that it was time he began to bestow more personal 
attention to the various interests than he had 
been doing since examinations and athletics had 
begun to divert his mind. 

So all his spare time until Saturday morning, 
when the nine and substitutes boarded the train 
for Baliol, was occupied with hard and cold busi- 
ness. He found his affairs in good shape, with 
a bank-account which promised to carry him 
through his junior year, leaving him free while a 
member of that class to prepare for his senior 
expenses. 

The team, which got a rousing cheer as it 
boarded the train at Haledon, left for Baliol in ex- 
cellent spirits. Lansing and Arnold were in- 
imitable humorists, and Slade and Arbuthnot had 
147 


The Big Game 

a fund of dry wit that added to the general 
enjoyment. Tom was not endowed with any 
ability as an actor or musician, but he had a 
quiet way of enjoying a joke or a story that made 
him very companionable. The coach himself 
caught the general atmosphere of light-hearted- 
ness and entered into the spirit of things. 

“ Speaking of pitching so as to hold runners on 
bases/’ he said to a group who surrounded his 
chair in the parlor-car bound for Baliol, “I re- 
call the time when I was pitching for the Chicago 
Cubs; and you know I was supposed to have the 
speediest delivery of any pitcher in big company.” 

“Yes, I guess we’ve all heard that,” said Tom 
Kerry. 

“Well,” Mangin went on, “I remember I had 
invented a motion so that instead of sending the 
ball to the batter I swung all the way around and 
shot the ball to second. I’m going to teach it 
to you, Tom, when you master what I’ve already 
showed you. Anyhow, we were down South, 
training for the season, and finally stacked up 
against a bush-league nine — one of the Three I 
League sort. It was a nice warm day and my 
old soup bone was hanging on ball-bearings. 
Smoke ! I never did have so much smoke in my 
life as I had on the ball that day; it just zipped 
148 


Tom Returns to the Box 


up to the plate like a flash of electric light.” 
Mangin rubbed his hand thoughtfully through his 
hair. 

"Of course those bushers were not touching 
me. All they did was to wag their bats and then 
sit down. But as luck would have it one of my 
fast ones struck a fellow — Doherty, his name was 
- — right on the fleshy part of his right leg. He 
went down like a stuck pig. But luckily he was 
hit in no vital spot. Curious thing was that when 
we investigated we found that the trade-mark and 
seams of the ball were branded into his skin. 
That’s the gospel fact. But that was later, in the 
dressing-room. 

"He took his base and he wasn’t so bad hurt 
that he couldn’t romp down to second when the 
next batter succeeded in touching me for a bunt. 
Now then, says I, here’s a chance for you to work 
that new motion of yours. But the runner on 
second stuck close to the bag, as there was only 
one out. But when I had two strikes on the 
batter I got the signal from the catcher that the 
bird on second was playing off wide. I might say 
that the two strikes I had hung onto the batter 
was my fast balls, lightning-fast. So, with the 
runner playing off second I winds up just as 
though for another fast ball and swinging all the 
149 


The Big Game 

way around I shoots the pill to second. Well, 
two things happened. The base-runner was 
caught flat-footed four feet off* the bag. But that 
wasn’t the strangest thing: the hatter struck out” 

“ Struck out! What do you mean?” asked 
Maher. 

“Why,” replied Tom, having joined in a hearty 
laugh, “that batter had been so dazzled by Mr. 
Mangin’s speed that he thought the ball that went 
to second was coming for the plate. So he just 
shut his eyes and whiffed.” 

Then every one laughed again, and Mangin 
was so pleased with the success of his story that 
he abandoned the pessimism which he usually dis- 
played on the eve of a game and told the team 
that he expected to see them win, hands down. 

It is likely, however, that he did not expect to 
see such a game as was played. The day turned 
off* cloudy and a cold, raw east wind swept over 
the field, chilling spectators and players alike. 
Tom went into the box and was at once the target 
for good-natured chaffing from the coachers, who, 
of course, were trying to rattle him. 

“Played any more professional ball?” asked 
the third-base coacher, as Tom took his place in 
the box in the first inning. The man, of course, 
had reference to the time when Tom as a high- 

150 


Tom Returns to the Box 


school player had pitched several innings for 
Blainesville against the Columbus, American 
Association, team. Tom had had his share of 
trouble over that incident, but had managed to 
prove that he pitched without pay and that he did 
not receive even his car-fare. None the less, 
mention of the sordid affair was not pleasant. 

It irritated Tom and so took his mind from 
his pitching that he had given one base on balls, 
had hit another man, and permitted another to 
make a single before he came down to earth, as 
the saying is. With three on bases he struck out 
the next man, while the next batter hit a fly to 
Lansing, whose strong arm served to catch at the 
plate the man trying to score on the out. 

From that time on Tom was a target for sotto 
voce remarks from the coaching-lines, while the 
Haledon coachers, unable to resist the tempta- 
tion, applied the same treatment to Armstrong, 
the Baliol pitcher. Mudge, a Haledon substitute, 
had been in Exeter with Armstrong and was 
familiar with some of his pet failings. As a re- 
sult he soon had the boy fighting-mad. Haledon 
took advantage of this to bat in three runs before 
he was removed from the box. Tom remained 
steady under increasing banter from the coachers 
and, sad to say, from the stands. Both teams 
iSi 


The Big Game 

stood for clean, sportsmanlike ball, but this was 
one of those psychological occasions where every- 
thing gets out of hand — even the spirit of fair play. 

In the sixth inning, the day growing colder, 
Tom was taken from the box and Cartwright put 
in. Mangin did not wish to take chances of the 
pitcher injuring his arm in the raw weather, while 
at the same time Baliol had no runs and Haledon 
seven. The game had degenerated into a riot of 
talk among the players, arguing with the umpires, 
and general jeering of Haledon from the stands. 
A climax was reached in the eighth inning when, 
with a Haledon man on first — it was Arnold — 
Roy hit a fly ball to short centre and the second, 
baseman ran as though to field a grounder. An- 
nold, who had started for second on the crack 
of the bat, not knowing what sort of a ball had 
been hit, saw the second-baseman stoop and toss 
to the short-stop, who was covering second. But 
he did not throw the ball; he had merely been 
indulging in pantomime; he really threw a hand- 
ful of dirt, the short-stop going through the mo- 
tions of catching. Thus Arnold, thinking he had 
been forced out, stopped short, while the centre- 
fielder, catching the fly, made easy work of throw- 
ing the ball to first and thus putting the runner 
out on a double play. 


152 


Tom Returns to the Box 


There was a shriek of joy from the Baliol 
rooters, while Mangin came out from the bench 
and did a dervish dance, utterly enraged. 

“You — you lunatic!” he cried. “You let 
them catch you on a bush-league trick that’s a 
century old! For the love of Mike!” He con- 
tinued his tirade, while even the Haledon team 
rocked with mirth at the discomfiture of their 
comrade. 

The incident unsettled the visitors and gave 
Baliol fresh hope. Cartwright threw balls up 
to the plate that, to fall into the vernacular of 
Mangin, were “as big as toy balloons.” When 
the excitement had died Baliol had sent in six 
runs and Arbuthnot was working out feverishly. 
Haledon could do nothing to increase her one- 
run lead in her half of the ninth and Baliol came 
to the bat in a do-or-die mood. 

The first man up received a base on balls. In 
his eagerness he played off too far and Slade 
snapped the ball to Arnold, who, as it appeared, 
had the runner out. But the umpire said not, 
and there was a delay while everybody crowded 
around the umpire. The decision, of course, 
held good. Then the next man flied out to left, 
the runner taking third on a bad throw-in. Ob- 
viously the next play would be a squeeze play — 
153 


The Big Game 

that is, the batter hitting at anything and the 
runner dashing for the plate as soon as the pitcher 
moved his arm. But Slade was not napping. 
He signalled for an extra-wide pitch-out, a ball 
the batter could not possibly reach. But he tried 
to; he even stepped across the plate, flailing 
wildly. But Slade’s hands closed on the sphere, 
whereupon it was a simple matter to throw the 
ball to third and catch the runner, who had 
turned in his tracks. 

“Well, boys,” growled Mangin, as the team, 
having given its cheer, came to the bench to pack 
their bats, “I’ve seen worse ball-games than this. 
But it was when I was a kid, a very small kid — 
in the sand-lots.” 


CHAPTER XII 
Fire! 


W ITH the first Baliol game played and won, 
and with the annual commencement con- 
test two weeks away, Tom Kerry — not to say 
the entire student body — began to relax, began 
to take note of the wonderful June weather and 
to linger over the poetry of the long sunlit days 
and college life in general. The seniors began to 
weld together as a class, cliques and society af- 
filiations disappearing in the general flux of good- 
fellowship and brotherly love. It's a sadly sweet 
time for those who are about to leave the venerable 
walls of their alma mater for good. A beautiful 
epoch is slowly vanishing and the gates of the 
world stand ajar. But Tom was a sophomore, 
and many of his friends had still a year or two 
of college life. There were Hal Middleton, and 
Lansing and Ransome of the nine, and Harrison 
of the football eleven, who made special appeal 
to Tom and were his closest friends. 

They roomed in the same dormitory, and upon 
155 


The Big Game 

ordinary occasions when one was seen the other 
was not likely to be far away. Harrison’s father 
was a Western millionaire; Lansing came from 
a stanch old Southern family and, like Tom, he 
was working his way through college; and of 
course we know about Hal Middleton, of Tom’s 
home town. But, differ as they might in many 
ways, they were all one in the common bond of 
friendship, even affection, for one another. Each 
had his own individual traits, likings, and habits, 
but in the big things they thought, and acted, 
as one — which is what makes for friendship among 
men. 

Hal and Ransome had been studying hard of 
late. The others had always kept up with their 
classroom work, and as a consequence they met 
their examination tests each day with clear heads 
and agile minds, and were always among the 
first to scrawl the Q. E. D. at the bottom of their 
papers and leave the classroom for the glorious 
sunshine. There was still baseball practice, but 
otherwise when the boys quitted the classroom 
they had their time pretty much to themselves. 
Tom’s tutoring classes had closed and he had 
also wound up his other affairs for the year. They 
showed a handsome balance and, as a consequence, 
he had never felt in such a care-free, joyous mood. 

156 


Fire! 


He was not worrying about professionalism, which 
he knew might safely be intrusted to Doctor 
Poindexter. His mind was utterly at peace. 

He loafed under the big elms with “Toots” 
Ransome and “Buck” Lansing and others of 
his intimate circle; or the whole crowd would 
pile into Hal Middleton’s touring-car — “Spitting 
Liz,” they called her — and ride off* into the coun- 
try. The region adjoining Haledon had not grown 
much since the Revolutionary War, and there 
were many quaint villages and hamlets, some of 
them still possessing the old inns which in early 
days were popular with those who travelled over 
the post-roads in stage-coaches. Tom loved to 
bask in the sunlight on a seat in front of some of 
these old brownstone structures, dreaming of 
how it must have been in colonial days, which 
in his mind were invested with romance and 
poetry which perhaps did not exist. 

One Sunday after chapel Tom moved rest- 
lessly about in his room, and at length sauntered 
forth to the campus. It was one of those vivid, 
soundless days, “knee-deep in June.” Students 
moved about and yawned, filled with a restless- 
ness which they could not explain but which any 
professors could recognize as due to thoughts of 
approaching vacation. Ransome and Middleton 
157 


The Big Game 

and Lansing appeared around a corner, their 
faces glowing in the light of an idea. 

“Hello, Tom!” cried Hal. “Where’s Doggie 
Harrison ?” 

“He’s up in the room,” yawned Tom. “I 
just left him there asleep. Why?” 

Without reply Hal ran to the dormitory and 
in stentorian tones demanded that Harrison 
“stick his head out the window.” 

“Come on, Doggie,” he said, when at length 
the head appeared. “We’ve got something on.” 

The plan, as it developed, was to ride out to 
Ilium, a quaint old village some ten miles away, 
and have luncheon at the Ilium Inn. All, of 
course, entered heartily into the idea, and with- 
in five minutes Hal Middleton appeared with 
his battered automobile. His father had de- 
clined to give him one, deeming it far better that 
students, whatever their means, live as other 
boys in college have to live. But Hal, who was 
of the saving sort, had accumulated a hundred 
dollars and had purchased the contraption from 
a farmer for that sum. It was the butt of the 
entire college, that car, but it served Hal’s pur- 
poses well and he did not mind how much fun 
was made of it. 

It was designed for four persons, but the five 
158 


Fire! 


boys had little difficulty in making themselves 
comfortable in it, and in enjoying the ride over 
the beautiful hills and meadows and forest-lands 
that lay on the way to Ilium. 

Arriving in front, they left the car in the horse- 
sheds at the side of the hotel and entered the 
dining-room, where they dined on their favorite 
broiled chicken, which Hal had ordered in ad- 
vance by telephone. Having lingered over the 
meal, the five boys moved out to the veranda. 
The fulness of a Sunday afternoon in midsummer 
was upon the village. Careful housewives had 
closed their blinds; not even a stray dog was 
seen on the hot, shimmering turnpike which 
stretched down-hill into Peeltown about a mile 
away. Even the alert and vigorous boys incon- 
tinently settled back in their chairs and fell 
asleep. 

When they awakened, in an hour or so, they 
found that they shared the veranda with several 
of the leading inhabitants of the village. Hal 
Middleton, who loved to poke about in queer 
places and knew Ilium well, was acquainted with 
a majority of the interesting characters of the 
village. And he introduced them to his friends. 
There was Daniel Saxon, the blacksmith; Nich- 
olas Van Duyne, the general storekeeper; Cor- 
159 


The Big Game 

poral Ball, a pensioner of the G. A. R.; and 
Squire Noakes, who owned a tannery and was 
plutocrat of the village. All of these acknowl- 
edged their introduction to Tom and the rest 
with lack-lustre nods. They were digesting their 
Sunday dinners — and were trying to keep cool. 
Conversation was all very well in its time and 
place, which were neither now nor here. The 
fun-loving Hal was disappointed. He had 
promised his friends a treat which he had said 
would beat “The Old Homestead.” Instead, 
every one was drowsing. His intention had been 
to rouse the villagers to a discussion of the rela- 
tive merits of Ilium’s and Peelstown’s fire de- 
partments, always a subject calculated to interest 
even the most phlegmatic inhabitant of either 
community. 

“I thought,” said Hal to Squire Noakes, “that 
I’d bring up some Haledon fellows to look over 
your fire apparatus.” 

Noakes nodded drowsily. 

“It’s over there.” He swept his arm toward 
a fraternal hall across the street and promptly 
went off into a doze. 

Lacking something better to do, Hal arose. 

“Come on, fellows,” he said. “Let’s look the 
thing over. They’re a lot of dead ones to-day,” 
160 


Fire! 


he added in a lower voice. “I wish, by George, 
we could do something to wake them up.” 

His companions, fervently sharing the wish, 
walked across the street to the engine-house and 
spent some time inspecting the ancient hand- 
pumping apparatus, with its buckets, its ladders 
hanging from beneath the body, and its equip- 
ment of hose and lantern. 

“Some engine!” grinned Harrison. “Gee! 
Fd like to see it in action.” 

“So would I,” laughed Tom; “I bet it would 
be funnier than a barrel of cats. But I suppose 
they have about one fire a year here — if that.” 

Hal Middleton glanced across the road and 
smiled mischievously. A wagon, drawn by two 
sturdy horses had stopped in front of the hotel 
and the driver was on the veranda passing the 
time of day with its somnolent inhabitants. The 
vehicle was a rickety affair and was piled high 
with hay, old crates, and empty peach-baskets. 

“Come on; I’m going to show you something.” 
Followed by the others he sauntered across the 
road. Presently Hal drew the driver of the wagon 
aside. 

“Do you own that hay and stuff?” he asked. 
“How much would you take for the whole load ?” 

The driver stared at the boy wonderingly and 
161 


The Big Game 

then eyed the contents of the wagon specula- 
tively. 

“Oh, about ten dollars,” he said at length. 

Hal took a wallet from his pocket and ab- 
stracted two five-dollar bills. These he handed 
to the man. 

“You can leave the load where it is for a while,” 
he said. “Later IT1 tell you where to deliver 
it.” 

The driver, well pleased with his bargain, sat 
down on the veranda to await Hal’s pleasure, 
while Hal himself rejoined his comrades and 
with a knowing smile advised them to “hang 
around.” 

It was now as though the day had been en- 
veloped in a soundless vacuum — as though life 
and all its manifestations had never been. Hal, 
with a yawn, arose and stole around in back of 
the wagon. Presently he returned and threw 
himself heavily into a chair. 

A moment or so later a gentle puff of smoke 
lifted itself, as though by effort, from the rear of 
the wagon, hung indecisively for a moment on the 
lifeless air, then, caught by a vagrant breeze, 
it was wafted lazily to the veranda. Another 
followed, no less deliberately. Squire Noakes 
sneezed. Corporal Ball, the pungent aroma in 
162 


Fire! 


his nostrils, found his dreams leading him to 
Gettysburg and strife. Daniel Saxton frowned. 

Presently there arose a voluminous cloud, 
heavy, dark, acrid. It drifted to the hotel like 
a trailing banner; it rested upon the faces of 
the sleepers. The awakening was immediate, 
simultaneous — and vociferous. Peace vanished 
forthwith and tumult reigned instead. The squire 
sprang from his seat, stentorian alarum upon his 
lips. 

“Fire!” In the cry, which rioted down the 
village street, were embodied the outward emo- 
tions of surprise, excitement, and gratification. 
“Fire !” 

Corporal Ball, his white whiskers bristling 
outward, his spectacles still resting upon his fore- 
head, dashed for the street. The intervening 
veranda railing he did not see. None the less, 
it made its presence felt, catching the veteran 
between waist and knee and precipitating him 
ungracefully upon the sidewalk. Squire Noakes, 
after his first cry, had paused to study the situa- 
tion as became a chief. Now he was bellowing 
his orders. The clanging of the locomotive tire 
which served for a fire-bell aroused the village; 
triumphant notes drifted down into Peeltown 
excited both curiosity and envy. 

163 


The Big Game 

“Fire! Fire!” 

Window-shutters were flung open; poultry 
gave voice; the American house-dog became in- 
volved in combat with a strange terrier. The 
village Sunday-school delivered teacher and 
pupils. Silence had perished, as it seemed, for- 
ever. 

Hal Middleton, genius of the spectacle, was 
rocking with laughter. Tom, Ransome, and the 
others were also convulsed. They missed nothing 
• — which is saying much for their powers of ob- 
servation; for there was a great deal to see. 
Meanwhile, over in the engine-house the fire- 
men had adjusted their hats and were putting 
on leather belts. With a cheer all hands tailed 
on the drag-rope of the engine and speedily hauled 
old Neptune to the rear of the conflagration. 

“Up, Rutan!” The chief waved his trumpet 
at the hotel man. “Up on the engine and pass 
out the hose !” 

Thus adjured, the stout person clambered 
laboriously up on the hose-rack and was preparing 
to pass out the end of a line which was to be de- 
posited in the hotel cistern, when a blazing wisp 
arose from the top of the pile and floated down 
upon the back of the nigh horse of the wagon. 
Thereupon events took place which Hal Middle- 
164 


Fire! 


ton had not foreseen. Already restive under 
the general excitement, this, so to say, proved 
the last straw. Laying back his ears, the animal 
reared and kicked, stimulating his mate to per- 
form similarly. The next instant they were off. 

Tom Kerry was quick to see the first revolu- 
tion of the wheels and was no less prompt in act- 
ing. He seized the lead-rope by which the ap- 
paratus was pulled and dexterously passed it 
around a hook protruding from beneath the body 
of the wagon. 

The lead-rope had a slack of twenty feet. When 
it was taken up by the now swiftly moving wagon 
the engine sprang forward with a convulsive jerk, 
as though suddenly inspired to jump through its 
wheels. Rutan, whose foothold among the hose 
was at best precarious, turned a not ungraceful 
summersault and descended to the street, where 
he might have remained indefinitely had not the 
blacksmith, hurrying up from the side, broken 
his fall. As it was, both went down into the hot 
dust, scrambling to their feet immediately and 
joining in excited chase of the elusive conflagra- 
tion and the equally evasive Neptune No. I. 

They were two of many; the entire village was 
now in pursuit. Ahead the fiery load rocked 
and rumbled and swayed, carrying its high pillar 

165 


The Big Game 

of black smoke along the turnpike, scattering 
flaming particles to right and left, while the en- 
gine reeled and bumped twenty feet behind. To 
the rear, to its sides, clung the firemen of 
Ilium. 

The Haledon boys stood by the roadside. 
Hal’s successful effort in behalf of an awakened 
community had exceeded their wildest imaginings. 
They saw the rapidly vanishing pillar of smoke, 
the hovering dust-clouds, the flying legs and 
bodies, the vague glints of polished metal. They 
saw the excited village — men, women, children, 
and dogs — following in helter-skelter abandon. 

“Come on, fellows — let’s catch up.” Hal ran 
to his automobile and cranked it, while Tom and 
the rest jumped in. 

Soon the car, sounding its raucous signals of 
warning, began to pass through the outlying 
fringe of the situation. Directly ahead now 
loomed the bouncing fire-engine. Through the 
murk of burning hay and crates and dust it 
was a ghostly, distorted thing, at least twice its 
natural size. 

“Hey!” Hal’s voice arose above the con- 
fusion. “Hey, chief — can’t you see? Stop!” 

“Eh — wh — what’s — tha — that?” The reply 

had a thin, syncopated sound. 

1 66 


Fire! 


“ What’s that!” cried Hal, drawing close to 
the rocking engine. “ Can’t you see? Those 
horses are carrying your fire into Peeltown. Into 
Peeltown ! Don’t you catch it ? ” 

Into Peeltown ! Firemen and citizens raised 
voices in angry dismay. Peeltown ! Already 
the outlying buildings of that borough were draw- 
ing near. The clanging of a highly pitched bell 
was now borne to their ears; the notes were redo- 
lent of anticipation. And upon the top of a small 
rise, well over the Peeltown line, they could see 
a swarm of figures dragging something behind 
them which flashed in the sunlight and sent long 
heliograph rays of triumph into Ilium. 

“Water Witch No. I is out!” Noakes’s voice 
arose to a scream. “What’s — ” A bump and 
a jerk, the engine scuttling for a moment on the 
two outside wheels, brought utterance to a close. 
And, while the fire-fighters pawed at the ground 
with their feet in the endeavor to gain such foot- 
hold as might serve to restrain the advance into 
alien territory, the line was crossed and Ilium 
was bereft. 

At the moment Water Witch No. i — the 
chief, trumpet in hand, in the van — pounded 
upon the scene. The men of Peeltown had run 
far enough; they had no intention of emulating 
167 


The Big Game 

the example of their brothers from the neigh- 
boring village. So with one accord they turned 
toward the gutter, dragging the cumbrous and 
unwieldy Water Witch directly across the path 
of the onrushing horses. 

The runaways were well spent as it was; since 
they had started, the rush of air had carried the 
burning particles backward. There had been 
no more irritating burns. They were quite ready 
to subside, if every one else was. They brought 
up short, quivering, panting, their noses pointed 
inquiringly at the curious thing of red and brass 
which barred their way. They were through. 
As it happened the animals were the only living 
things who felt this way, and that the firemen 
were far from regarding them as an example was 
evidenced by the haste with which the traces 
were cut, thus freeing the team from the wagon 
and leaving them to go or stay as they willed. 

Responding to the Peeltown chiefs stentorian 
orders, his firemen were already unlimbering 
their hose-reel. Chief Noakes bawled similar 
orders and then turned to his rival. 

“Dan Baldwin, you quit ! Do you hear ? This 
is ourn.” 

“Eh?” The Peeltown commander glared at 
the Ilium man and then motioned to one of his 
1 68 


Fire! 


men to bear the suction end of the hose to the 
cistern of a road-house which stood at hand. 

“He says it’s our fire,” roared Saxton. He 
and Corporal Ball had had a lift on the road and 
were filled with energy. 

“Yes, ours!” cried Noakes. “Hurry, men; 
take that suction-lead over to that there cistern.” 
There were plenty to obey. And there was need 
of hurry, for the load of hay was now three-quar- 
ters gone — still, however, blazing and smoking 
merrily. “Look here, Dan Baldwin,” the chief 
continued; “this is ourn, I say.” 

“Is this Ilium?” retorted Baldwin. “Get a 
move on there, you men. Take ’er up lively. 
Prepare to man the pumps!” 

Noakes shook his fist under the other chiefs 
nose. 

“It started in Ilium; it’s Ilium’s hay, and 
Ilium’s wagon, and owned by a citizen of Ilium.” 

Baldwin turned away with a laugh. 

“Well, squire, all I can say is — keep your fire 
to home; and when you can’t put ’em out bring 
’em over to us.” The two were surrounded by 
a constantly augmenting crowd of sympathizers, 
who pushed and jostled and argued one with the 
other. Fists were brandished. Conditions were 
rapidly making toward a riot. 

169 


The Big Game 

“Take your men away — or there’ll be trouble,” 
shouted Baldwin suddenly, seeing a scuffle in 
progress at the cistern. 

“I’ll take— eh!” 

The exclamation was occasioned by a sudden 
rearward jerk of the burning vehicle. The voice 
of Hal Middleton was raised in quivering, pene- 
trating triumph. 

“All aboard! All aboard for Ilium!” 

Under cover of the excitement he had picked 
up Neptune’s lead-rope, which had fallen from 
the hook in back of the wagon immediately the 
forward impulse had ceased. This he had knotted 
around the hook and then fastened to the rear 
axle of the motor-car. 

Now roaring with merriment, he was drawing 
the fire back into the territory which had rightful 
claim to it. Nor was the pace a laggard one. 
With everything hooked up the two vehicles fairly 
leaped over the ground, while the rival firemen 
and the onlookers were constrained to lay hold 
of the fire-engines and employ their very best 
speed to keep in touch with the dramatic, if not 
the actual, centre of things. 

There were cheers, curses, ejaculations of 
triumph, and throaty imprecations. Men and 
boys struck at one another as they raced side 
170 


Fire! 


by side, drawing the two engines. In the road- 
house yard the men of Water Witch, who had 
just succeeded in throwing Corporal Ball into 
the cistern, turned away and entered upon pur- 
suit of the fire. The vigorous old veteran, stand- 
ing up to his chin, bawling and shaking his fist 
at the blue sky which appeared through the open- 
ing above his head — for all the world like some 
circumscribed Neptune — was hauled out by the 
women of the hotel in time to see Hal's motor- 
car approach the boundary-line. 

He likewise saw what happened immediately 
after. Hal, in fact, had just crossed the line, was 
preparing his lips for a shout of triumph, when 
his ancient car stalled with an abruptness which 
could have been no more instantaneous had the 
thing run into an oak-tree. The hay-wagon did 
not stop. Continuing its impressive headway 
it crashed into the stricken motor-vehicle. Part 
of the load, undermined and tottering, shot from 
the wagon and as Hal Middleton dived into the 
road, bore down with the force and suddenness 
of an avalanche and buried the car under a mass 
of burning, smoking debris. 

The automobile was old, as we know. The 
gasolene-tank leaked. Events which immediately 
attended the descent of the burning hay thus 
171 


The Big Game 

made almost everything that had gone before 
seem tame and commonplace. The motor-car, 
now thoroughly invested in flames, was making 
the hottest fire for its size that the firemen of 
either department had ever witnessed. For a 
few minutes the swift conflict of events brought 
the firemen to a pause. They had brought their 
engines up; they were standing peacefully side 
by side. Then, as by a common impulse, the 
two chiefs seized the suction-leads and rushed 
for the brook. They collided. Fists were up- 
raised. A general rush of vamp and citizen ensued. 
The banks of the brook became a swirling tur- 
moil. 

And then came a piercing voice. As all paused, 
as all eyes turned to a rock whence the sound 
came, they saw Hal mounting it from out of the 
tinkling waters. His hands were upraised. 

“ Firemen/’ he began, “ that’s my automobile. 
The company that gets first water on it can have 
it — it’s theirs ” 

But Hal's last effort to gild, as it were, the 
hour of turmoil was doomed to defeat. The pastor 
of the Ilium church, dust-covered and weary- 
limbed, eyes nevertheless filled with a noble glow, 
clambered upon the top of Neptune No. i. Once 
on high he carefully reached out a foot, so that 
172 


Fire! 


eventually it rested on Water Witch No. i. 
Watching him in this attitude of sublime neu- 
trality, even Hal was stilled. 

“Firemen of Peeltown and Ilium,” he said, 
“let there be peace. There are two fires. The 
hay-wagon is in Peeltown; the motor-car is in 
Ilium. There is plenty of work for each. There 
is glory enough for all. ,> 

And so there was. The men of Ilium wrestled 
with the burning automobile; Peeltown’s firemen 
conquered the burning wagon. 

Hal turned from the wagon with a grin. 

“Come on, fellows,” he said, “the wagon’s 
only scorched. Just the same we’d better get 
out; for I imagine that Squire Noakes and the 
rest will begin to want to get their hands on us.” 

“I think so, too,” said Tom. “Do you know, 
Hal, you’re an awfully humorous chap?” 

“You’ll think so when you reach the trolley 
to Haledon; it’s three miles away,” Hal replied. 


173 


CHAPTER XIII 
A Pitchers’ Battle 

I NSPIRED by the exciting events of the first 
day of the week, Tom Kerry and his friends 
entered vigorously into the life of the last week 
of the term. The days were filled with activity 
and each evening the college gathered on the 
campus to hear the senior class sing their songs. 
As always, there was a note of melancholy about 
the proceeding, and Tom always departed from 
beneath the elms at the conclusion of the singing 
with a lump in his throat. It was a beautiful 
place, was Haledon, and Tom could well imagine 
how hard it must be for these seniors to leave 
the ivy-clad precincts and the friends who had 
been with them constantly throughout the four 
wonderful years. 

In the afternoon there was baseball practice 
for the annual commencement game against 
Baliol. This was always strenuous. Of all Hale- 
don’s rivals Baliol was the chief. The loss of 
whatever game — even at the hands of Shelburne, 
another ancient rival — was completely wiped out 
and forgotten when Haledon trounced Baliol, 
174 


A Pitchers’ Battle 


and as Shelburne had already won the Haledon 
series the coach and students were especially 
anxious that their team should make atonement, 
with Baliol as the sacrificial victim. 

Tom was pitching in wonderful form, but the 
team as a whole was in a batting slump. No 
matter how great a pitcher may be, he must have 
support from the bats of his comrades, and Mangin 
worked desperately to pull the team to their feet. 
Ransome, the heaviest batter, had not made a 
hit in the last Baliol contest, and Slade and Ar- 
nold, who were always counted on for stinging 
drives, had been equally unsuccessful. As a con- 
sequence even Tom was called into service to 
throw shots and benders at his team-mates in 
an effort to accustom them to the best pitching 
that could be obtained. 

But nothing came of it; the men continued to 
knock flies into the outfield or easy grounders to 
the infielders. At the last Mangin had to settle 
back upon the hope that the actual presence of 
their dearest rivals would spur the men to a re- 
sumption of their true form. The players them- 
selves, not understanding their lapse in form — 
as a matter of fact, a slump of the sort cannot 
be explained or understood — shared the coach’s 
hopes, also relying upon the distraction to their 
175 


The Big Game 

opponents which the gay, shrieking commence- 
ment-game throng, with classes in bizarre cos- 
tume and braying bands and horse-play, would 
exert. 

The day of the game dawned beautifully; a 
poetic, golden glow hung over the turrets and 
walls of the university, and the air, while of mid- 
summer warmth, contained enough life to put 
the players on edge. The various classes, ranging 
from the sixties to the class most recently out of 
college, attired in costumes ranging from those 
of rough riders, Chinamen, and Bedouins of the 
desert, marched into the field while the two nines 
were practising and converted it into a circus 
arena. By the time the American League umpire 
— the famous “Silk” O’Loughlin — had announced 
the batteries there were perhaps fifteen thousand 
vociferous spectators in the stands. 

Tom had already gained a reputation as the 
greatest pitcher in the intercollegiate ranks, and 
on this day he justified it in every detail. He 
was in perfect form, and he could throw the ball 
wherever he wanted it to go. In six innings Baliol 
had not made a hit, not even the semblance of 
a hit. But the trouble was that Baliors left- 
hander, Howard, was also in great form — or the 
Haledon batters in poor form, perhaps a mix- 
176 


A Pitchers’ Battle 


ture of both. At all events a three-bagger by 
Ransome had been the only Haledon to date, 
and Ransome had been left on the bag while one 
man struck out and two went out on flies. 

In the seventh inning both sides went out in 
one-two-three order, Tom in this inning striking 
out his tenth man, Howard his fifth. In the eighth 
Baliol went out in order, and Tom received a 
base on balls, the first of the game. He was caught 
stealing second, and the next instant Lansing 
struck out and Maher perished on a high foul fly 
to left. Baliol went out on an attempted bunt, 
a strike-out, and a grounder to pitcher in her 
half of the ninth, and then Haledon came to the 
bat with a mighty uproaring shaking the echoes. 

Arnold was hit by the pitcher and scampered 
joyfully to first. Roy advanced him to second 
on a sacrifice bunt. Standing there, he caught 
a signal from Mangin, and as the pitcher raised 
his arm he shot for third. It was a clean steal, 
the throwing taking the third-baseman from the 
ground. Then, instructed to bunt for a squeeze 
play, Ransome laid down a grounder between 
pitcher and first, and Arnold, who had started 
for home as the pitcher moved his arm to throw 
the ball, had no difficulty in reaching the plate 
and scoring the winning run. 

1 77 


The Big Game 

Uproar of course followed. The excited crowd 
surged upon the field and bore Tom and Maher 
aloft on their shoulders, while thousands joined 
in line behind the bands and made their way in 
and out in serpentine procession. 

As soon as Tom escaped from the clutches of 
the ardent Haledonians he ran for the dressing- 
room and there found most of the team. He 
slapped the captain upon the back. 

“Congratulations, Tommy Maher,” he said. 
“I know how it must be to leave college as cap- 
tain of a winning team.” 

Maher looked at Tom soberly. 

“I guess you do, Tom,” he said. “And all I 
can hope is that you’ll have the same experience 
some day yourself. And you will — either in foot- 
ball or baseball,” he added. “I guess it’ll be 
whichever sport you please.” 

Tom flushed, and turning away began to pull 
off his uniform. In another half-hour he was 
wandering back to the campus in his normal 
attire, just one of a body of care-free undergrad- 
uates. 

But, come to think, he was not absolutely care- 
free. In the past few days he had been casting 
his thoughts ahead to the coming fall, when he 
might be called upon to face certain problems 
178 


A Pitchers’ Battle 


which had already begun to show their faces. 
Doctor Poindexter had said nothing to him about 
the facts concerning commercialization of prepara- 
tory-school athletes, which Tom had left in his 
hands. And he began to be afraid that the matter 
would be left in abeyance until it would be, per- 
haps, too late for any decided action on the part 
of the college authorities — at least for some months 
to come. 

It was, in fact, the following morning, after 
breakfast, that he received word from the dean 
to call, not at his office but at his home. Tom, 
of course, lost no time in answering the summons. 
The dean received him in his most gracious 
manner. 

“Mr. Kerry,” he said, “Fm afraid I have kept 
you waiting, but you can imagine this is a matter 
which requires time, while in any event the com- 
mencement season is not my idlest period.” 

“No, sir,” Tom replied; “I can understand 
that.” 

“Quite so.” The dean nodded. “None the 
less, I have been able to make some headway in 
this matter, particularly with reference to Stewart 
and Andrews, two men against whom your facts — 
or rather Doctor Winter’s facts — are most com- 
plete. Now,” Doctor Poindexter continued, “I 
179 


The Big Game 

know you are aware that no university is more 
rigid against infringement of the rules of eligi- 
bility than is Haledon. I have never hesitated to 
act — and to act promptly and inexorably — when 
I am satisfied that we have been imposed upon. 
You will recall the athletes, for instance, who 
were unable to participate in various sports be- 
cause of poor scholastic standing. You under- 
stand, of course, that your participation in 
athletics has been solely because your classroom 
standing permitted it. No matter how good you 
or any man is, he has to meet our requirements.” 

“Yes, sir, I understand that,” Tom responded. 

“Therefore I think we may accept the fact 
that our attitude is well established and uni- 
versally known and admitted. Now, in the case 
of Stewart and Andrews, both of whom performed 
in highly creditable manner on the freshman 
eleven last year, there appears to be no doubt 
that they are the beneficiaries of scholarships. 
I have talked to Mr. Sawyer and Mr. Rathburn 
and they make no secret of it. They admit that 
there is a scholarship fund and that they are the 
custodians.” 

“Well,” said Tom, “I should think, sir, that 
this is all there is to it; what better ground of 
action could we have ?” 

180 


A Pitchers’ Battle 


“We could have better ground,” smiled the 
dean, “if it were true that this scholarship fund 
were applied only to athletes. But, happily, it 
is not. Both Mr. Rathburn and Mr. Sawyer 
have been able to show that where perhaps two, 
or say three, athletes have benefited by it, some 
half-dozen students who have no athletic ability 
whatever — who are merely, shall we say, greasy 
grinds — are recipients of the advantages which 
arise from this fund.” 

Tom was puzzled. He gazed for a few moments 
in silence at the dean. Then he shook his head 
doggedly. 

“Does that alter the case against the athletes ?” 
he asked. 

The dean smiled and played with a paper- 
weight for a moment before replying. 

“Why, yes, I should say that it altered it — 
most materially. You are an athlete yourself, 
Mr. Kerry; you can see no reason why we should 
utterly discriminate against athletes.” 

Tom raised his head. 

“You think it is not unlikely that the helping 
of non-athletic students is merely a cloak to cover 
the real motive of the scheme?” 

Doctor Poindexter laughed and raised his 
hands. 

181 


The Big Game 

“Why — why, it might be, of course, Mr. Kerry. 
It might be, as you suggest. But also it might 
not be. I think the doubt is far greater than the 
original suspicion. It stands to reason that where 
say some ten or twelve boys are assisted through 
the medium of scholarships some of that number 
will be athletes. As to Tomlinson and Driscoll, 
they admit that they are employed in summer 
in the Hardenburg machine-shops — Mr. Har- 
denburg being one of our prominent alumni — but 
so far as I can see they do their work in summer, 
and certainly their scholarship, while not par- 
ticularly impressive, is sufficiently fair to main- 
tain their class standing.” 

The dean cleared his throat. 

“Can’t you see, Mr. Kerry,” he continued, 
“that while we may believe that athletes are 
brought here who might go elsewhere, or nowhere, 
we really have no right to believe it without 
definite proof? Surely the faculty committee 
cannot expel Andrews and Stewart because they 
are recipients of a scholarship, when other students 
benefit by the very same fund. And there is no 
particular onus against boys who work in 
summer.” 

“I see.” Tom said. “And yet, as Doctor 
Winter says, and as Ferguson told me, there is 

182 


A Pitchers’ Battle 

a general feeling among crack preparatory-school 
athletes that university athletics are a rich field. 
Naturally, the methods employed would be cov- 
ered up in some such manner — I mean, are 
covered up — as you have described them.” 

“Yes,” nodded the dean, “I can see that.” 
He paused. “But, after all, we of the faculty 
represent the alumni as well as the undergrad- 
uates. We cannot plunge headlong into a sea 
of dubious allegation and assertions. No one 
affirms that scholarships are evil; in fact, they 
represent the generosity of graduates and serve 
to give many a poor boy an education. I should 
say, speaking ex cathedra , that they are too val- 
uable to warrant discrediting them simply be- 
cause an individual violation, or several individual 
violations, occur.” 

Tom arose. 

“I can see your point of view, Doctor Poin- 
dexter,” he said. “And, as I have looked into 
this scholarship matter somewhat, I can say that 
there is a lot of good in the system. There are 
scholarship funds at Haledon that exist only in 
the interest of culture and education. But I 
don’t believe the Sawyer-Rathburn fund is of that 
sort. And I don’t believe certain funds handled 
by graduates of other colleges are of that sort. 

183 


The Big Game 

But I can see, too, doctor, what your position, 
and the position of any college officer, is. Your 
hands are tied, except where you encounter an 
out-and-out case of professionalism. But I don’t 
know altogether that my hands are tied.” Tom 
smiled his brilliant smile. “You don’t mind my 
saying that, sir?” 

The dean raised his hands. 

“Tut, tut! I should say not. I think the 
great characteristic of Haledon men is that they 
think for themselves. We have always tried 
to cultivate that faculty in our students — as 
you, of course, know. Go ahead by all means, 
and”' — he came to Tom and placed his hand upon 
his shoulder — “all I ask is that you keep a clear 
vision and that you don’t lose your head.” 

“I’ll try not to, sir; thank you.” Tom left 
the office. 

In the post-office he found the long-awaited 
reply to his telegram from Enoch Chase. In 
their last interview Sawyer had said nothing to 
Tom about the summer camp in Vermont, and 
as a consequence Tom had said nothing. He had 
already received a letter from his father in An- 
nandale saying it would be impossible for him 
to spend even a month at the camp, and this 
alone had decided Tom against the venture. He 
184 


A Pitchers’ Battle 


would go to Annandale. Chase’s letter strength- 
ened his determination. 

“By no means go to that camp,” he wrote. 
“There has already been a great deal of criticism 
concerning it. Keep your hands clean. I hope 
you can stop off in Columbus on your way home, 
as I have a great deal to say to you.” 

Tom and Hal, together with several hundred 
students hailing from points west of the Alle- 
ghanies, left the university on the “Haledon 
Special,” and a merry trip it was. The two An- 
nandale boys took leave of their companions at 
Columbus, and, while Hal Middleton went straight 
out to Blainesville and thence to Annandale, 
Tom, who had wired Enoch Chase as to the time 
of his arrival, found Chase’s motor-car at the 
station. The owner and his friend Warburton 
were in the tonneau, and the three drove to a 
hotel. After Chase had ordered luncheon he 
turned to Tom, and after some complimentary 
references to his success both as a scholar and 
in athletics his face grew serious. 

“Now, boy,” he said, “tell me all you know. 
Your letter hinted at several things that interest 
me.” 

So Tom launched forth into a recital of the 
events that had occupied his mind since his visit 

185 


The Big Game 

to Belmore. He concluded his story, which was 
a long one, with a request for advice. Chase 
regarded the table thoughtfully. 

“Of course, Tom,” he said at length, “you 
can see the absolute justice and sanity of Doctor 
Poindexter’s stand. I know that not only at 
Haledon, but at Shelburne, Baliol, Franklin, and 
other places, there is no hesitation in drastic 
treatment of cases where the professional issue 
is clean-cut. But you must remember that in 
many cases, in most cases, the hands of the col- 
lege authorities are tied by the alumni. For ex- 
ample, say I, out here in Columbus, conclude a 
bargain with you to go to Haledon. No one knows 
it but you and me. How is Doctor Poindexter 
going to prove anything — even assuming he may 
suspect you ? ” 

“I can see that,” replied Tom, “and I can see 
how innocent those scholarship funds, as handled 
by Mr. Sawyer and Mr. Rathburn, may appear. 
Yet they are crooked.” 

“Perhaps so, probably so,” was Warburton’s 
comment. “But you must see, Tom, what the 
authorities are up against.” 

“I guess,” growled Chase, “that he does. But 
I can see your trend, Tom, and I want you to 
know that whatever you do, so long as you can 
1 86 


A Pitchers’ Battle 


justify it, will receive the solid backing of every 
decent Haledon man, and Shelburne and Baliol 
and other college men too. Now, as for that 
summer camp; it no doubt stands as a capper 
for Haledon athletics. But here again you’ll 
find it bulwarked with alleged charity and all 
that sort of thing. I don’t know what you can 
do about it, but I decided you yourself had better 
keep away anyhow.” 

“I think so myself,” Tom replied, drawing 
from his pocket a newspaper clipping. “Now 
look here. I cut this from a New York paper 
yesterday.” He read: 

“ ‘The football authorities at Durham College 
evidently consider it the better policy to recruit 
their gridiron forces from players already de- 
veloped rather than risk their prestige to green 
material. Mike Salsburg is evidently an ener- 
getic coach; for it is announced that Sam Cross, 
of Cokedale; Mart Jones, of Mason and Dixon; 
and Powers, an all-Western guard from Lee Uni- 
versity, will enter Durham next fall. As the 
freshman rule does not obtain at Durham, these 
stars will be at once available. Haledon is the 
second game on the Durham schedule next fall; 
evidently Coach Salsburg is out for big game.’ ” 

Chase and Warburton clucked their disgust. 

187 


The Big Game 

“Bad, bad, bad!” sighed Chase. “But that 
paragraph is not at all a rarity. You read such 
things all the time. So-and-so transfers from 
such-and-such a place to some other college. 
Look at Baliol, at Haledon, at Shelburne, almost 
any line-up for next fall, and you’ll see the names 
of men who were formerly at some other seat of 
learning. Why do they transfer ? Some, evi- 
dently, in good faith. But not all — not by any 
means.” 

“No, not all,” said Tom, arising and consulting 
his watch. “Well, the train for Blainesville will 
leave in fifteen minutes. I'm mighty glad to 
have been able to talk to you. And,” he added 
solemnly, “when I get back to Haledon next 
September I can see work ahead.” 

He left, and after the motor-car had dropped 
him at the station Chase nudged his friend. 

“Do you remember, Warry, what Kerry was 
when we first met him ? He had all the elements 
for what he is to-day but nothing developed. 
Now look at him after two years in the old place.” 

“It certainly is fine,” agreed Warburton, hunch- 
ing his big shoulders forward. “But I’ve an idea 
he will be even bigger next year. We’ll hear from 
him even before he’s graduated.” 

“I’ll bet on it !” was Chase’s reply. 

188 


CHAPTER XIV 
Another Football Season 



HEN Tom stepped from the Blainesville 


V V train at the Annandale station, Louise 
Middleton was there in her runabout. She had 
come to meet her father, but evidently he had 
decided to take a later train. 

“Tom Kerry !” She leaned out of the car, 
smiling and flushing as the tall, lithe young man 
turned and then hurried toward her. As Chase 
and Warburton noted a change in him, so did 
the girl. She had always admired him — he had 
been the hero of her girlhood — but now he had 
something about him that was different. Cer- 
tainly his clothing was different, and he wore it 
differently; but it wasn’t that. Perhaps it was 
his poise, something he had acquired in his life 
at the big university. She was not sure what it 
was; but she knew he had developed and im- 
proved. 

He entered the car at her side and they chatted 
as easily as though they had not been separated 
189 


The Big Game 

for nearly a year, exchanging infrequent letters 
in that time. She told of her life at Vassar and 
laughed over the fire at Ilium, of which Hal had 
already told her. 

“I am going to leave for Maine day after to- 
morrow, ” she said, “and so you had better make 
the most of the time.” The car had stopped in 
front of Timothy Kerry’s store and Tom was 
alighting. 

“Oh, I shall,” he laughed, and turned to his 
father’s enlarged store. As he entered, the little 
man, so different in physical stature from his 
son, was coming out of the private office, having 
heard Tom’s voice. 

“Well, well!” He wriggled out of Tom’s bear 
hug and stood back to look at him. “Well, Tom, 
boy — you great, big husky! My, but I’m glad 
to see you !” His blue eyes were suffused with 
pride and tenderness. “Well, I’ve heard all about 
you, and I’ve been proud — proud , Tom ! Old 
Amanda, back home, is expecting you and will 
have muffins for supper. You remember them. 
Well,” — the man was talking and turning about 
like a top, — “what do you think of the store — 
eh? Business is fine, Tom. Fine!” 

They sat and talked and talked and talked, 
while Mr. Arkwright, the bank cashier, and Squire 
190 


Another Football Season 


Middleton and Judge Timms and all the other 
leading citizens of Annandale dropped in to wel- 
come the renowned athlete to his home. 

It is a temptation to tell of Tom’s summer in 
that bustling little town of Annandale, of his 
talks with his father, of the two short days he 
had in which to renew his friendship with Louise 
Middleton, what they said and did, and all. And 
it would also be interesting to tell of Tom’s rela- 
tions with the boys of Annandale, high and 
grammar school, to whom of course he was greater 
than Napoleon. But time and space both deny. 
Suffice to say that the weeks went by swiftly, 
easily, and pleasantly, and that by the time the 
first week in September was at hand Tom felt 
that he had loafed so long and so earnestly that 
he never again would be fit for work of any sort. 

Yet in the distance he began to discern work 
of grimmer sort than any he had yet been called 
upon to face. The country was drifting toward 
war. The newspapers didn’t say so; in fact, 
there was every sign that the nation was reso- 
lutely holding aloof from serious thoughts of the 
future. Yet Judge Middleton, a man whose 
judgment Tom respected most highly, had said 
more than once that the future was filled with 
portents of evil which the nation could not dodge, 
191 


The Big Game 

but must seize in her hands, and from professors 
at the university, men whose intellect and powers 
of discernment Tom respected, had for some time 
been able to see no alternative to our entrance 
into the war sooner or later. 

Well, he would know how to act when that 
time came. In the meanwhile the football season 
lay ahead and he was ready and eager for the 
work and play of his junior year, ready and eager 
despite the pang which he always felt in parting 
from his father. He had received a letter from 
the football captain asking him as usual to report 
the week before the university opened, and there 
was, of course, no thought of disobeying the 
summons. So one glowing September morning, 
with bags in hand, he went to the station and 
took the train to Blainesville, his father accom- 
panying him thither and then taking final leave. 

He remembered how Jerry Ogden, the captain, 
was on the train last year and the good time they 
had had. But now Jerry was out in the wide, 
wide world working for a living, with nothing 
ahead of him so far as football was concerned 
but brilliant memories. Tom wondered how he 
would feel when a fall came around and he knew 
that he was out of the game for good. 

Tom found that some forty candidates had 
192 r 


Another Football Season 


assembled for early practice. All the veterans 
of the preceding year who were still in college 
were on hand, together with a number of sub- 
stitutes and material from the freshman class. 
Meriwether, the coach, was in the field-house 
and greeted Tom warmly as he entered with the 
uniform which he had snatched from his room 
as he passed through the campus. 

“ Hello, Tom, Tm certainly glad to see you, 
boy. Almost every man I’ve been counting on 
is here and we’ve got to buckle down hard. Dur- 
ham is loaded for bear this year and is going to 
try to put one over on us.” 

“So I’ve heard,” replied Tom grimly. “What 
do you think of it ? ” 

“It’s rotten,” was the reply. “If we lick them 
this year they won’t be on our schedule again. 
Here we’d been planning for a cumulative schedule, 
gaining in strength week by week up to the Baliol 
and Shelburne games, and then Durham goes 
and loads herself up with a bunch of stars from 
far and wide ! It’s disgusting ! Well, anyway, 
they may not have such a killing as they think 
they’ll have.” 

He nodded and walked out of the room, while 
Tom proceeded to change his clothing. Each 
garment evoked a world of memories. In his 
193 


The Big Game 

jersey was the long tear at the neck which had 
been inflicted by some grasping Shelburne fingers 
in the course of his run for a touchdown last year. 
His moleskin breeches were patched and turf- 
stained, and the woollen stockings, thick as they 
were, were beginning to reveal runs and holes. 
There would be a new uniform before the first 
game, but Tom knew that this, his first varsity 
outfit, would always occupy a place among his 
cherished treasures of college life. 

When he went out on the gridiron, with its 
surrounding walls of concrete, he could not but 
think of the last time he had stepped upon this 
field, the huge semicircular structure black with 
spectators, the air resounding with cheers. He 
wondered how he had been able to be so cool and 
collected. But he had been, and had made for 
himself a reputation. 

Of all games, football held first place in Tom 
Kerry’s affections. There was a heroic quality 
about it that appealed to him strongly — he loved 
the shock of physical contact and the matching 
of wit against wit and brain against brain. Then, 
the season in which it was played — the golden 
season, with its crisp turf and tangy air — was 
another impressive asset to the sport. He ran 
along the side-line, carrying his knees high up 
194 


Another Football Season 


to his waist, limbering up, the cool September 
breeze blowing through his crinkling blond hair, 
his nostrils dilating. As he passed midfield, the 
quarterback caught a punt and dashed up the turf. 

“Here’s where I get by you, Tommy,” he 
called. Tom grinned, cut in, and launched him- 
self at the boy’s knees, bringing him to earth 
with a tooth-rattling crash. 

“My,” chuckled Tom, as he arose, “that felt 
good !” 

“Did it!” grumbled Allen. “Well, I’m glad 
you think so.” 

But Meriwether was hurrying up with a deep 
frown, hurling angry exclamations ahead. 

“You chaps cut that out, do you hear ? I don’t 
want any tackling on this field — I mean outside 
of the dummy, for a week. Now, that goes for 
all. No tackling ! I’m not going to have a hos- 
pital squad on my hands before the season starts. 
Now, everybody come over here.” 

He took a stand in the centre of the field and 
the squad gathered around him in a circular group. 
Some men he assigned to the tackling dummy 
under direction of one of the line coaches. The 
backs and quarterbacks were sent to another 
part of the field to practise taking the ball and 
running low. Soon there were various groups 
195 


The Big Game 

scattered over the gridiron, doing one thing or 
another under the instruction of assistant coaches, 
while King, the captain, and Meriwether moved 
from point to point, watching the work of the 
various candidates and adding here and there 
a suggestion or criticism. At the end of the day 
there was a tentative line-up of the varsity, Tom 
in his old position as fullback. A few simple 
plays were tried against a second eleven and then 
the men were dismissed for the day. 

Thus passed the first week of the season, and 
on the following Monday the university opened, 
bringing, among a horde of students, Hal Middle- 
ton, who had been unable to report for preliminary 
practice because of illness, and Ferguson, the 
husky freshman from Belmore. True to his word, 
the man had refused all offers of whatever nature 
and had come to Haledon without obligation of 
any sort. With him had come one other Bel- 
morian football-player — Sam Kerwin, an end. 
Tom found himself facing the necessity of ar- 
ranging for the pair to work their way through. 
This duty he gladly accepted and, as he was more 
familiar with the self-support idea as it obtained 
at Haledon than perhaps any student in the uni- 
versity, he was able to be of material assistance 
to both his allies. 


196 


Another Football Season 


And they were of assistance to him. Kervvin 
came from the environment of Durham College 
and he was able to give Tom a great many in- 
teresting facts concerning the methods which 
had been employed to lure so many experienced 
football-players to that seat of learning. 

Ferguson gave Tom facts concerning Stewart 
and Andrews — who had been lining up with the 
varsity ever since practice began, and had also 
been justifying the great reputation which they 
had established both as preparatory-school players 
and as members of the freshman team. Andrews 
had taken the place at tackle left vacant by Jerry 
Ogden and promised to fill his shoes in every way, 
and Stewart had already satisfied Meriwether 
that he was a better back than Sloane, who had 
been graduated in June. 

With two gaping holes thus filled, Meriwether’s 
satisfaction was unbounded. He could see one 
of the greatest teams that Haledon had ever 
turned out. The line was balanced, and the back- 
field, with Harrison and Stewart at the halves 
and Tom at full, was a tremendously powerful, 
as well as a lightning-fast, combination. In the 
first game of the season, against Blake College, 
the sturdy Pennsylvania mountaineers were fairly 
stood upon their heads, and sent down to defeat 
197 


The Big Game 

by an overwhelming score. Tom had never been 
more brilliant; his punts travelled fifty and sixty 
yards and to any part of the field which the kicker 
desired, while his slashing turns around the end 
seemed unstoppable. Andrews, in his turn, opened 
gaping holes in the line for Stewart, who went 
through like a catapult. 

Tom admired their skill, of course, but this 
did not prevent him from pursuing his inquiry 
concerning the conditions under which they had 
entered Haledon. Dean Poindexter evidently 
had dropped the matter, and Tom did not blame 
him, if only because he could appreciate that the 
facts he had presented to the dean did not war- 
rant, or at least did not permit, action on his 
part. Tom had decided that in the future he 
would handle affairs himself, mindful of Doctor 
Winter’s suggestion — with whom, by the way, 
he had corresponded throughout the summer — 
that the only effective fight against this subtle 
evil which had crept into the colleges and prep 
schools was to be made from the inside, from the 
players themselves. He intended to go slowly, 
to keep in mind the dean’s instructions concern- 
ing hot-headedness. 

But as to Durham, whose team was to come 
to Haledon for the second game of the Haledon 
198 


Another Football Season 


season, Tom felt that he was prepared. On the 
Sunday after the Blake game he asked the coach 
to call a meeting of the eleven and substitutes. 

"It’s a matter that I don’t care to say any- 
thing about until I can tell it to every one,” Tom 
said, seeing Meriwether’s look of surprise. The 
coach nodded, thinking perhaps that Tom had 
devised some new scheme of play which he wished 
to discuss. 

“I’ll have them at the field-house to-night and 
you can talk it all out, whatever it is.” 

Tom thanked him and then, going to his room, 
was closeted for some time with “Doggie” Harri- 
son, Hal Middleton, who was Stewart’s substitute 
in the backfield, and with Kerwin, the fresh- 
man. 

The team assembled promptly at the designated 
hour, their faces expressing their wonderment. 
Meriwether, who sat grimly in the background, 
somewhat resentful of the mystery Tom had 
maintained, waved his hand as Tom glanced 
at him. 

“This is your tea-party, Tom,” he said. “Go 
ahead and run things; I’m merely a looker-on.” 

“All right.” Tom stood up in the centre of 
the group of young stalwarts who were lounging 
on settees or slouched in chairs. “What I want 
199 


The Big Game 

to say to you is this. We are supposed to play 
Durham College next Saturday. Durham is 
after our scalp. She has, of course, a perfect 
right to be, has as much right to want to beat us 
as we want to beat her. But she hasn’t a right 
to fill her team with hired football stars. That’s 
what she’s done. She has Mart Jones. Mart 
Jones you all know about, as a former Mason 
and Dixon player. Now here are affidavits which 
show that Jones is employed in the Durham drug- 
store at a salary of thirty dollars a week; he works 
there out of class hours and doesn’t know carbolic 
acid from ginger ale. That’s why he left Mason 
and Dixon. Now, as for Powers, he was a poor 
boy in Lee University. He came to Durham with 
two celluloid collars, a tooth-brush, and one suit 
of clothes. Now he’s driving about Durham in 
his own Ford car and is dressed like a broker. 
How did he do it ? I can’t find out. But I can 
guess. There’s another fellow, Cross, who made 
a rep in Cokedale two years ago. He’s on the 
team.” 

As Tom went on the players began laughing, 
and at each name there was a guffaw of deri- 
sion. 

“Now, fellows,” Tom said, “that’s just the 
trouble. It’s a joke. Everybody has been laugh- 
200 


Another Football Season 


ing at it for the past three years. But really it 
is no joke. I came to Haledon to play football 
against amateur teams, not professionals. As 
one of the Haledon players I want to suggest 
here that we refuse to meet Durham.” 

Tom was respected by all of the football men, 
including coach and managers. He was respected 
not alone for his playing ability but for his likable 
qualities as a man. There were those, of course, 
in Haledon who did not like him for one r'eason 
or another, but they were boys whose regard 
was not valued by any one. As a consequence, 
after Tom had spoken there was a moment’s 
silence. Then the captain spoke. 

“But that’s absurd. We’ve got to play them 
now. We’ve booked the game. We can’t craw- 
fish. Why, I never heard of such a thing.” 

“I know you haven’t, Billy, but that’s no 
reason why you and other people shouldn’t hear 
about it now. This race for football prestige is 
going too far.” Tom glanced at Andrews and 
Stewart, who sat together, smiling rather con- 
temptuously, Tom thought. “If the men who 
are playing the game get together and say what 
is right and what is not right, what they will 
stand for and what they won’t stand for, why, 
you’ll see a change. I, for one, believe in making 
201 


The Big Game 

a stand right now. We’ve got the goods on this 
crowd and I think it is up to Haledon to make 
an example.” 

Meriwether, who, wise coach that he was, had 
grasped at once what Tom was about, cleared 
his throat: 

“Well, I think what Tom says is dead right. 
Just the same, I don’t see how we can get out of 
playing Durham. I’m not stuck on playing her, 
believe me. But it’s silly to talk of calling off 
the game.” 

“If I thought it was silly, Mr. Meriwether, I 
wouldn’t have suggested it,” Tom said. “I pre- 
sent the idea with absolute seriousness and I’d 
like to have it settled right here.” 

“That would be impossible,” interjected 
Parker, the football-manager and one of the 
most influential students in college. “I am for 
what Tom Kerry says; he’s absolutely right. 
But — good heavens — we can drop them next 
year, can’t we ? ” 

“I don’t know about that,” Tom replied. “If 
they lick us, then no one will want to drop the 
game; I mean a majority of the fellows won’t. 
But it isn’t a question of their beating or not 
beating us. What I want to do is to let the world 
know they’re rotten, and the way to do it is to 


202 


Another Football Season 


let them plumb alone; let them stew in their 
own grease.” 

Parker nodded. 

“I get your idea, Tom. But you know, after 
all, this is a matter for the faculty committee to 
settle. Then, again, they may come back at 
us. There’s Jim Thorne, over there. Now,” he 
added, raising his hand, “I know Jim transferred 
to us straight, without any inducement; he has 
all the money he wants anyway. None the less, 
he’s a transfer.” 

“There’s no comparison at all,” declared Tom. 
“One case is a clean case, the others are not.” 
He faced Meriwether. “So, therefore, I make a 
motion that a committee be sent to interview 
the members of the faculty committee and see 
what their views are.” 

After much discussion Meriwether, the cap- 
tain, and Hal Middleton were selected to call 
upon as many members of the committee as could 
be found and get their views, the meeting ad- 
journing for an hour to await their report. 

“Well,” reported Meriwether, when the men 
had reassembled, “we’ve talked to four members 
of the committee — a majority — including Dean 
Poindexter, and while they sympathize with our 
views they say that it is out of the question calling 
203 


The Big Game 

off the game. We must meet our engagements. 
They didn’t hesitate about that.” 

“I see.” Tom’s eyes were glittering. “Well, 
I wish to serve notice that I decline to play against 
Durham.” 

“Neither will I,” said Harrison, while, to Tom’s 
surprise, the captain arose and said that he too 
would not play. 

“I can see Tom’s view-point,” he said. “He 
wants to establish a principle, and I’m with him. 
Of course, we’ll give our reasons to the news- 
papers.” 

“Of course,” Tom said. “That’s the only 
weapon we have — publicity.” 

“And be called quitters and welchers and every- 
thing else,” snapped Meriwether. “I tell you 
fellows this,” he said, rising. “You will play 
this game or you won’t play again for Haledon 
this year.” 

“I don’t know about that,” said King. “The 
captain happens to be boss at this little old uni- 
versity, Merry. We’ll take a vote to see how 
the team feels about it.” 

And that vote was twenty to ten in favor of 
calling off the approaching game against Dur- 
ham. 


204 


CHAPTER XV 

A Stand Against Professionalism 

T HE following Monday morning the sport- 
ing feature of the newspapers throughout 
a goodly section of the country related to the 
“strike” of the Haledon eleven. Some news- 
paper writers contented themselves with setting 
forth the bare facts as sent out by the university 
correspondents, while others added comments of 
their own. There was a praiseworthy tendency 
to accept the Haledon attitude at its face value, 
there being no expressed idea that the team had 
refused to play their smaller rivals simply through 
fear of defeat. The principle upon which Hale- 
don stood was recogpized, appreciated, and in 
some instances applauded. One of the most re- 
spected critics of one of the newspapers, whose 
opinions on matters of sport were closely followed, 
said that Haledon’s action marked an epoch. 

“We have been going too far,” he wrote. “It 
has long been time that a halt was called, if only 
for the sheer benefit of the intercollegiate athletic 
system. For it has been patent that the wild 
205 


The Big Game 

scramble for victory on the football-field has 
reached a stage where, as Woodrow Wilson once 
said, ‘the side-show has outstripped the circus.’ 
Those who love intercollegiate athletics have 
feared that present trends would have but one 
result — the abandonment by indignant faculties 
of the whole scheme of sport among the colleges. 
The best antidote to such action is the stand taken 
by the Haledon team.” 

But it was not all so pleasant as this for Tom 
Kerry and other members of the eleven who had 
put through this drastic handling of a bad situa- 
tion. Letters and telegrams to the football cap- 
tain, to the faculty committee, to Dean Poin- 
dexter and President Woolsey, began to pour in 
from irate graduates. Their tenor was that 
whether the team was morally right or not it 
was setting itself up before the country as a gang 
of quitters, a disgrace to the university. The 
alumni demand that the game be played was 
almost universal. Even those who held a brief 
for the cleanest sort of football joined in the gen- 
eral outcry against the action of the eleven. The 
thing to do, they said, was to play Durham and 
then settle the matter afterward. 

The football committee, composed of graduates, 
came to Haledon from every quarter as soon as 
206 


A Stand Against Professionalism 

they heard the news; they were solid men, prom- 
inent in various walks in life, who had been 
gridiron stars in their day. They came with 
squared jaws and grim faces, prepared to settle 
the matter at once. Haledon had to play Dur- 
ham; that was their slogan. The honor of the 
university demanded it, and abstract questions 
as to morals and the rights and wrongs of the 
situation could be — must be — left in abeyance. 
So great was the pressure that some of the players 
began to question whether they had not over- 
stepped bounds. One of the football committee, 
the president of a great bank, met Tom on the 
campus. 

“I want you to come and take a little walk 
with me, Kerry,” he said. 

Tom, who had just come from a lecture and 
had an hour to spare, nodded compliance. 

“Now, Kerry,” the man said, slipping his arm 
through Tom’s, “I want you to play that game 
and I want you to urge your fellows the same way. 
I know your influence and I don’t think I am far 
wrong in suspecting that you started this whole 
shindy.” 

“Well,” admitted Tom, “I helped.” 

“I respect your motives,” went on the older 
man, “but I want you to be big enough to see 
207 


The Big Game 

Haledon's side of the case. You don't want the 
university to be a laughing-stock or to be set 
down as yellow.” 

“No, I don't,” Tom said. “But I don't think 
we will be set down in that way. It isn’t as though 
we were not going to meet other strong elevens. 
This thing is not a mere boyish scrap,” he con- 
tinued. “There's a principle involved and that 
principle is bigger than — yes , bigger than Hale- 
don or anybody in Haledon. The only way to 
smash something is to smash it; that's what 
we're going to do to Durham.” 

“Then,” said the graduate, “there is nothing 
I can say to change your attitude?” He was a 
prominent man in finance and was not accus- 
tomed to having his requests denied. 

Tom’s hand instinctively went to his pocket 
and felt the crinkle of an approving telegram he 
had received from Enoch Chase. 

“I don't like to have you put it that way, Mr. 
Knapp,” Tom said. “I don’t want to appear 
fresh, or headstrong, or indifferent to what you 
want. But just the same we are up against a 
situation here that has got to be handled by us 
if by any one. And, now the issue has come up, 
I’m going through with it if I have to go through 
with it alone.” 


208 


A Stand Against Professionalism 

“Very well, sir. ,, Knapp nodded coldly and 
walked hastily away. 

Practice was conducted as usual that after- 
noon, and the only occurrence that struck Tom 
was that Andrews and Stewart and several other 
men who voted against the cancellation of the 
Durham game had a tendency to gather together 
while dressing for practice and after the practice 
was over. 

Doctor Poindexter talked to Tom and King 
that night. He heartily approved of the action 
of the team, although, in view of the weight of 
alumni opinion against the move, he was not 
saying so publicly. Neither did he say so to the 
two boys. He merely inquired if the attitude of 
the team was the same, and then, looking at 
Tom, asked pointedly if he felt that Haledon 
was going into this matter with clean hands. 

“From things you have said to me, Mr. Kerry,” 
he smiled, “I should assume there is some field 
for missionary work right among you.” 

“Yes, there is,” Tom admitted, “but I think it 
would be better to take up one thing at a time.” 

As it happened, however, this matter was taken 
out of his hands. The Tuesday morning papers 
contained Durham’s reply. It lacked neither 
force nor vigor. In fact it was a most complete 
209 


The Big Game 

and emphatic statement, a “sounding tu quoque,” 
as one newspaper put it. 

Curiously, however, the Durham statement 
did not rest so much upon a denial of the charges 
as proffered in the letter submitted to Durham 
by Parker, the manager of the Haledon eleven, 
as upon the fact that Haledon was not a whit 
better than Durham. And the statement there- 
upon proceeded to prove it. Without sparing 
details — with which the Durham football folk 
were apparently even more familiar than Tom — 
the facts in the case of Andrews and Stewart 
and three members of the freshman eleven were 
set forth in plain language. 

“And so,” concluded the outgiving, “Haledon 
sets herself up as an apostle of purity, as the guard- 
ian of the sacred principles of pure sport. Dur- 
ham will accept her moral standards from sources 
better fitted to administer them. And, at the 
same time, Durham wishes to say that her eleven 
will appear on the Haledon field next Saturday 
and that Haledon thereafter may do as she pleases 
about playing the game.” 

The reader may imagine the furor in Haledon. 
The college daily frothed at the mouth and tele- 
grams from all points piled upon the desks of 
all who in any way were connected with the Hale- 


210 


A Stand Against Professionalism 

don football situation. The football committee 
and the faculty committee on sports held a joint 
sitting, and in the course of their deliberations 
various members of the team were summoned. 
Captain King merely stated that the Durham 
defiance had merely strengthened the team’s 
resolution not to meet that college and that, so 
far as he was concerned, the facts as alleged against 
two of his best players were merely empty mouth- 
ings. He had no reason, he said, to believe that 
there was truth in them. Meriwether said the 
same thing. And both spoke truthfully; they 
had merely accepted the men as players. 

Andrews and Stewart, when questioned, lied 
like fishermen, and defied any one to say they 
were professionals. They contradicted them- 
selves a great deal, and, as they were obviously 
men not of the approved Haledon type, each 
being some twenty-five or twenty-six years old, 
they did not make a great impression. 

But Tom did. He made a profound impres- 
sion. He answered the summons of the joint 
committees armed with a mass of papers. Before 
a question was asked him Tom requested per- 
mission to make a statement. This being granted, 
he startled his hearers with a declaration that 
Durham was absolutely right in her charges. 


21 1 


The Big Game 

“There is no doubt, gentlemen, that we did 
not go into this thing with clean hands. Dur- 
ham knows that, because Durham was in the 
field gunning for some of the men we got. You 
see, when a preparatory-school player is in de- 
mand there is likely to be competition and various 
bidders run across one another and get to know 
who’s who.” Tom glanced about the room. 
“There is at least one gentleman here present 
who knows that what Durham says is true. At 
least he ought to know. He’s in a position to 
know. If you ask me what to do — I don’t know 
whether you will or not, but anyway, gentlemen, 
I am going to tell you : the only thing to do is to 
declare Andrews and Stewart ineligible to play 
on the ” 

The interruption came in the shape of a smooth, 
oily voice from the rear of the room/' It was that 
of K. J. S. Allen, an extremely important alumnus, 
a man of vast wealth, whose gifts to the university 
had been munificent. 

“I rather think Mr. Kerry is going ahead too 
rapidly. If I recall, he himself, two years ago, 
was charged with professionalism and narrowly 
escaped disbarment. I say this not to cast dis- 
credit upon him, or to awaken painful memories, 
but merely to suggest that he view other. cases 


212 


A Stand Against Professionalism 

with the same breadth of mind and charity that 
was employed so beneficially in his behalf.” 

Tom flushed vividly, but kept his temper. 

“I don’t think that my case enters,” he said. 
“I was put through the grill and I came out with 
a clean bill of health. I am interested only in 
doing everything I can to make intercollegiate 
athletics clean. Now, here are facts which ought 
to prove to any one that Andrews and Stewart 
and those freshmen have no right to represent 
Haledon upon any team. I am ready to meet 
them right here before you and give them a 
chance to reply to the statements that I have to 
make.” 

There was a moment’s pause and then Doctor 
Poindexter, who presided, said that he did not 
think such proceeding was necessary. 

“I have adequate authority in this matter — 
at least I have in conjunction with the faculty 
committee. I will take the facts and examine 
them.” The dean paused and cleared his throat. 
“I have long been cognizant, gentlemen, of the 
facts to which Mr. Kerry refers; or perhaps I 
had better say that I have recognized for some 
time that our intercollegiate scheme has been 
marred by the activities of overzealous and, I’m 
sorry to say, misguided alumni. Our hands have 
213 


The Big Game 

been tied because of our lack of control over ir- 
responsible graduates, and because, too, of the 
practical impossibility of fastening charges upon 
them. They work remote from the university, 
cover their manoeuvres with skill, and the only 
indication we have of evil is a sort of subtle bad 
smell. Now, Mr. Kerry, in conjunction with 
recent preparatory-school graduates and with 
Doctor Winter, head master at Belmore, an in- 
stitution which some of you attended, has been 
at work on this situation. He has adduced facts 
with some of which I am acquainted. I am going 
to declare this meeting adjourned and by virtue 
of my power as chairman of the faculty committee 
I hereby call a meeting of that body at one o’clock 
this afternoon to consider eligibility matters.” 

He brought his gavel down with a sharp crash 
and — unmindful of the frowns of certain alumni, 
whose displeasure might make it exceedingly un- 
pleasant for him in future days — he walked out 
of the room, taking from Tom his package of 
papers as he went. . . . 

That evening the university correspondents 
were called to the office of the dean and received 
typewritten announcements that Samuel D. An- 
drews and John L. Stewart, of the sophomore 
class; and David Brixton, Patrick Dalton, and 
214 


A Stand Against Professionalism 

William Schwartz of the freshman class had left 
Haledon. 

“Their scholastic standing was fair,” concluded 
the statement, “and their withdrawal from the 
university was voluntary.” And that was all. 

Dean Poindexter steadfastly declined to add 
a word to the announcement. But it was known 
that the five boys had been before the faculty 
committee, and from another source it leaked 
out that two of the freshmen had confessed to 
receiving, when they entered college, eight hun- 
dred dollars each, for which they had given notes 
due after they were graduated. Thus, by col- 
lecting gossip and fact, the correspondents had 
no difficulty in piecing together the reasons for 
the withdrawal of the athletes. 

“Haledon Team Wrecked by Faculty Ukase!” 
This was the type of head in the papers of 
Wednesday morning. The college was in a tur- 
moil. Indignant students held a mass-meeting 
demanding that the faculty committee rescind 
their action. But only the hotter heads among 
the undergraduate body were prominent in the 
gathering, and the resolutions, when presented 
to President Woolsey and Dean Poindexter, made 
no great impression — at least they were produc- 
tive of no results. 

215 


The Big Game 

The great metropolitan newspapers ran columns 
about the affair and there was no lack of editorial 
comment. 

“At last,” said one writer, “we find that the 
habit which our modern undergraduate has 
formed of thinking for himself has borne fruit. 
Haledon may lose the Baliol and Shelburne and 
other games; but she has gained something in- 
finitely more precious than athletic victories. 
She has washed her hands, has cleaned house, 
has demonstrated that a great university is con- 
ducted primarily in the interest of learning and 
culture and decency. All honor to her! Now 
who will be the next ? ” 

Shelburne and Baliol, as it chanced, were the 
next. Faculty bodies there, long resenting the 
influx each year of freshman athletes who played 
football or baseball for one year and then slumped 
into ineligibility, talked determinedly of drastic 
regulation and instituted a searching investiga- 
tion of the status of various members of their 
teams. They even communicated with Haledon, 
asking for information and any assistance which 
Haledon might give in their quest. And Hale- 
don — or at least the faculty committee of that 
university — thanks to Tom and the confessions 
of the five students who had left the university — 
216 


A Stand Against Professionalism 

had plenty of information to give. It seemed 
certain that as a result of the stand in Haledon 
there would be a general purification, through- 
out the East at least. 

“ Kerry/’ said the dean, “ as I see it, everybody 
was waiting for everybody else to light the fire. 
We — or rather you — lighted it, and the result” 
— the dean raised his hands — “a veritable con- 
flagration ! I know there is a strong element of 
the student body with whom you are unpopular, 
as well as some graduates to whom you are 
anathema. But you have no need to mind such 
things. You are above them. You have shown 
yourself to be, above all things, a man, with de- 
termination to fight and ability to fight well. 
I am proud of you.” 

Dean Poindexter’s reference to the attitude of 
many students toward Tom had by no means 
overstated the case. To those who counted 
athletic success as pre-eminent, whatever the 
means by which it was brought about; to those 
who did not think deeply or broadly — Tom Kerry 
was nothing less than a rascal. As it chanced, 
a majority of such students were in control of 
a club to which Tom belonged — a club, by the 
way, in which he was seldom seen. From this 
he was asked to resign, and he did so at once. 

217 


The Big Game 

Other men whom he had looked upon as friends 
cut him on the campus. But, on the other hand, 
the big men, the boys who counted for something 
in Haledon, whose esteem was worth having, 
were loyal; in fact, from among them Tom gained 
several firm friends who were to continue as such 
through life. 

Meriwether’s attitude was sphinx-like. An 
alumnus himself, he had been through many 
college uprisings, and he knew how futile it was 
to combat them. The disruption of his strong 
team nearly broke his heart, but as it would be 
clear that anything disagreeable that might happen 
in the course of the season would not be his fault 
— he of course had to consider his reputation, for 
financial reasons — he shut his lips grimly and 
worked with what he had left. 

Stewart’s departure had raised Hal Middleton 
to the varsity, and the high-spirited fellow was 
overjoyed, and played such football as he had 
never played before. But even so he was by no 
means a Stewart, and never would be. And 
Andrews’s place was a gaping hole. Meriwether 
started his line-coach to work trying to convert a 
substitute guard into a tackle, at the same time 
trying out other men, not with a great deal of 
confidence. 


218 


A Stand Against Professionalism 

As a matter of truth, Meriwether had lost a 
lot of his old-time force and energy. He went 
about his work in a languid sort of way, as though 
caring little whether school kept or not. If a 
man offended he would point out the error in a 
few technical terms, which the player, likely as 
not, could not understand, and then walk away 
indifferently. And of course the work of the 
men reflected his attitude. The atmosphere was 
one of half-heartedness and carelessness. Few 
if any students came down to the field to watch 
the practice, and in general conditions were in- 
conceivably at odds. 

Meanwhile the day for the Durham game was 
approaching. Despatches from that seat of learn- 
ing made it clear that the team would be sent to 
play the game as per announcement. The fact 
that Haledon no longer enjoyed the services of 
men whose athletic purity had been questioned 
by the Durham football authorities was ignored 
by the Durhamites. They retained their full 
team and were ready to play football. 

But Haledon was not ready. That was per- 
fectly clear and emphatically stated day by day. 
The sporting columns reeked with report, gossip, 
and innuendo. And on the day before the game, 
as originally arranged, there was every prospect 
219 


The Big Game 

of a record-breaking minor-game crowd, lured 
thither by prospects of seeing Durham make 
good her intention of crossing Haledon’s goal 
whether Haledon opposed or not. There was 
also the additional incentive of the proposed mas- 
sacre of the Durham team by an irate body of 
Haledon undergraduates, should Durham dare 
to invade the classic precincts of Haledon. 


220 


CHAPTER XVI 

A Revolution on the Eleven 

T HE situation on the day before the date of 
the Durham game became so intense that 
President Woolsey referred to the matter in 
chapel. He had heard, he said, of the attitude 
of the student body, and in a measure he could 
appreciate their emotions. 

“Yet,” he went on, “you are to remember 
above all that you are Haledon men, and as such 
must observe in every nice detail the honor of 
your university. If Durham comes here — and 
I am willing to confess my hope that reports to 
such effect are erroneous — she must receive such 
consideration as Haledon is proud to accord to 
representatives of any sister seat of learning. 
There is, of course, no feeling in my mind but 
that such talk as has come to me in the course 
of the past few days — such talk as for instance 
appeared in several of the newspapers yester- 
day — is the outgiving of youthful spirit and is 
not seriously to be considered as reflecting the 
intentions of any Haledon man. In any event, 


221 


The Big Game 

I seek now to remind you who you are and what 
you are. A word to the wise and to the loyal 
should be sufficient.” 

Whether such warning was necessary or not 
there can be no doubt that the undergraduates 
were seriously excited. As would be the case, 
the entire university had abandoned all individual 
opinions and had lined up solidly behind the 
eleven. Whether the team had been wise or un- 
wise was not the point; the point was that a 
stand had been taken and that it was the part 
of loyalty to hold up the football-players in their 
stand. The university daily was the leader in 
this, and the general expression of feeling from 
college presidents and other authorities through- 
out the country, as quoted in the daily press, 
was certainly not against the attitude of the Hal- 
edon eleven. At least all who gave interviews 
upheld the Haledon stand as excellent in theory. 
But of course they did not attempt to give an 
opinion as to whether or not the charges against 
Durham were true. 

At practice Thursday afternoon Meriwether and 
his assistants began to take greater interest in the 
work of the team. Meriwether’s sharp, caustic 
comments were heard once more, while Jerrems, 
the backfield coach, and the other specialists in 
222 


A Revolution on the Eleven 


various departments applied the lash vigorously. 
The freshman-team coach had brought over his 
husky eleven for a game against the varsity, and 
the two went at it nip and tuck. Ferguson, at 
tackle for the cubs, speedily caught Meriwether’s 
eye. He had heard of the Belmore player, of 
course, and knew that he had come to Haledon 
through Tom’s influence. 

“My,” he said to Knox, the freshman mentor, 
“my, I wish I had that bird in Andrews’s place ! 
Did you ever see such a horse ? Why, he stands 
that end Anderson on his head every time they 
come together ! Look at that hole he’s just opened 
through Taylor. I can’t make a tackle out of 
Taylor; he’s too slow-footed. We’re cooked 
there and at Stewart’s place, sure.” 

“Ferguson,” said Knox, “has just been talk- 
ing to me. He’s a quiet, hafd-working fellow. 
He says he met a senior the other day that lives 
near him in Vermont. He says he’d make the 
best football linesman in the country.” 

Meriwether pricked up his ears. 

“Where is he?” he asked. “Is he a member 
of the squad?” He shrugged. “But of course 
he isn’t. I wouldn’t be apt to miss a world-beater 
like that.” 

“No,” Knox replied, “he’s one of that big, 
223 


The Big Game 

quiet sort that studies hard and doesn’t know 
more than a handful of students. His name is 
Yerkes.” 

“Hey, Eddie!” cried Meriwether, turning away 
from the freshman coach and beckoning to Cap- 
tain King. “Do you know a chap in your class 
named Yerkes ?” 

“Ho,” laughed King, “Farmer Yerkes! You 
bet I do ! At least Eve seen him about. He’s a 
grind, a regular hayseed, too. But he’s a big 
fellow. In freshman year a couple of sophomores 
tried to put him through his paces and he threw 
them over the president’s hedge. But I guess 
he’s too clumsy for football. I never thought 
about him.” 

“Didn’t you?” replied Meriwether, who was 
famous for his ability as a developer of men. 
“Well, maybe he isn’t. But I want a look at 
him. Can you send some stude to find him?” 

“Surely,” King replied. “Bronson, the as- 
sistant manager, will look him up and I’ll tell 
him where he can be found, too. He’s sure to 
be studying or something in his room at Mrs. 
Allison’s boarding-house.” 

Fifteen minutes later Bronson reported to 
Meriwether with a behemoth in tow. Yerkes’s 
face was one of those countenances that seemed 
224 


A Revolution on the Eleven 


to be carved out of oak. He was not quite six 
feet tall, but seemed as broad as he was long. 
He was not fat. His shoulders were of the long, 
sloping sort; his arms were long and thick, while 
his legs were bowed and strong as the Pillars 
of Hercules. 

“Ever play football, Yerkes?” asked Meri- 
wether, regarding the fellow with glistening eyes. 

“No, sir,” replied Yerkes diffidently. “IVe 
never had a great deal of time. And I’ve never 
been down to any of the games — because — well, 
because I haven’t had the money to spare.” 

“Do you love Haledon ?” snapped Meriwether. 

“Love it!” Yerkes turned his big face upon 
the questioner. “Love it ! Haledon is the 
greatest place in the world. I love it so much 
that I’d die for Haledon.” 

Meriwether turned swiftly to a group who 
surrounded the two. 

“He’d die for Haledon!” he barked. “Do 
you hear that, fellows ? For years when you 
fellows have wanted to tell a funny football story 
you’ve told about the fellow who wanted to 
die for ‘dear old Rutgers.’ Well, that story isn’t 
funny. It never was. It represents a spirit that 
I’d like to see at Haledon. There’s too much 
laughing and too little dying in this modern age 
225 


The Big Game 

of college athletics. Now, then, Yerkes, you 
let Bronson take you into the dressing-room and 
fit you out with at least a sweater. Then you 
come out here again.” 

When Yerkes finally appeared he was attired 
in a sweater and a pair of overalls belonging to 
one of the rubbers. No breeches in the stock of 
football equipment would fit his huge, bowed 
legs with any comfort. He was a picturesque 
figure, certainly, and a good-natured laugh went 
up from the football-players, in which, by the 
way, Yerkes joined. 

“Now,” said Meriwether, taking him by the 
arm, “you come over here.” He led him to the 
freshman line and told the regular occupant to 
move to the side-lines for a few minutes. “Here,” 
he said, “you are in a place called right tackle.” 

“Yes,” said Yerkes simply, “I’ve heard of it.” 

“All right,” smiled Meriwether. “Now, four 
players over stands your friend Ferguson at left 
tackle. The team facing you is the varsity — of 
which perhaps you have also heard. Now, of 
course, you know the theory of the game. You 
are to protect the territory at your back and in 
your turn you try to invade the varsity’s terri- 
tory and get the ball behind those posts. The 
varsity has the ball now and on the first play 
226 


A Revolution on the Eleven 


one of the varsity backs is going to go through 
you. You mustn’t let him through. You must 
stop him, grab him, and throw him right down 
on the ground. Do you understand ?” As Yerkes 
nodded, the coach went on: “That end over 
there will come in and try to put you out of the 
play, and those two linesmen there will leap in 
on you, trying to shove you to one side or knock 
you down so that there’ll be a hole for the back 
to get through. See? All right now. Your duty 
is to hold your ground and beat the assault.” 
The coach moved back of the varsity. “All right, 
Allen,” he called; “shoot your play.” 

The varsity quarter crouched down behind the 
centre and barked out his signals. The ball went 
to Hal Middleton. Anderson, the varsity left 
end, and Halstead, the left tackle, dived crashing 
into Yerkes, who, throughout the giving of the 
signals, had been standing in a half-upright posi- 
tion, his big hands upon his knees. 

One of Yerkes’s great arms shot out, the open 
palm catching Anderson under the chin, straight- 
ening him out and hurling him over backward. 
Halstead, in his dive, encountered the novice’s 
hip and went flailing over against his guard. Tom 
Kerry, who had dived in to take out the opposing 
end, tripped over Anderson and went down. Hal, 
227 


The Big Game 

still behind the line, seeing nothing but a mass 
of figures with a colossus standing at the spot 
through which he was supposed to go, veered 
out toward the end. Yerkes stepped out of the 
welter and, with surprising speed and agility, 
made for the runner. 

Hal was going smoothly, with two backs ahead 
of him, when suddenly he experienced a crush- 
ing sensation under his armpit. It required no 
full glance to know that he was in the grip of 
Yerkes. Hal sought intimidation. 

“Let go of me, you big yap !” he cried. “Let 
go and get out of the way.” 

Then — well, then Hal to this day does not 
remember what happened. He had a sensation 
of rising in the air and then an impression as of 
falling off the roof of a sky-scraper. But Meri- 
wether was in a position to note all the details. 
He saw Yerkes lift Hal with one hand, hold him 
high for a moment and then permit him to crash 
to the ground, the ball flying from Hal’s arms 
and going in one direction while Hal himself lay 
stunned and dazed. 

“Holy smoke! What a tackle!” Jerrems ran 
over to Meriwether, with Knox, the line-coach. 

“Sort of a busted offense,” grinned the head 
coach to Captain King. “Yerkes, I want you to 
228 


A Revolution on the Eleven 


go over to the corner of the field there with Mr. 
Knox, who will, in the course of an hour or two, 
give to you the finer points of tackle pla y.” He 
paused. “You seem to have the rougher ones.” 

At the end of the practice Knox came over 
with Yerkes and delivered him to Meriwether. 

“He’ll be a great tackle, the very greatest, 
in about a year,” said the line-coach. “In the 
meantime, without knowing anything about the 
game except the little he’s picked up from me, 
I can say that if you put him in a spot and tell 
him to go somewhere, why, he’ll go. He’ll go, 
Merry. And if you stand him somewhere and 
tell him not to let any one through him — why, 
then, no one will get through him.” 

“All right. Good!” cried Meriwether. “Now, 
Yerkes, you report out here at three o’clock to- 
morrow afternoon and every afternoon until 
further notice.” 

Meriwether’s renewed ardor was not without 
a reason, a reason which he kept to himself. It 
will not be divulged just at this moment; suf- 
fice to say that after some period of thought he 
had realized that, after all, a body of red-blooded 
young men are human, and that they are prey 
to human emotions. If the reader guesses from 
this what was in the coach’s mind, well and good. 

229 


The Big Game 

If not, no harm will be done, if only for the reason 
that Meriwether’s plans, whatever they were, 
he kept absolutely to himself. 

After working out Yerkes on the scrub for an 
hour next day the coach took him over to the 
varsity. He was, of course, crude and inexperi- 
enced. But he had three great things in his fa- 
vor: he had a mind that was quick to grasp things 
and he was strong and fast. As Knox had said, 
when you put him somewhere and told him to do 
something he did it — in a way of his own. If any 
opponent tried to prevent him, so much the worse 
for that opponent. He was the sort of raw ma- 
terial that a coach dreams about — and seldom 
sees. Meriwether execrated the system that 
had permitted him to abide nearly four years in 
Haledon without being discovered. 

Tom also regretted his oversight in regard to 
the big farmer. Ferguson had introduced the 
two, and, as a matter of fact, Tom had noted his 
hulking figure about the campus. But he had 
never thought of him in connection with foot- 
ball. On this day, the day before Durham was 
due to arrive, Tom caught up with Yerkes as 
he was leaving the training-quarters. 

The new varsity man turned to Tom with a 
smile on his gnarled face. 

230 


A Revolution on the Eleven 

“This is a great game,” he said. “I wish I’d 
played it before. I can see how much there is 
to it and consequently I know how far I fall 
short.” 

“Well,” said Tom, “you’ll learn fast enough; 
what I wanted to speak to you about is that Dur- 
ham affair to-morrow. You evidently do a lot 
of thinking. What’s your idea about it?” 

“I haven’t any right to an idea as a member 
of the football team,” returned Yerkes, “but as 
an individual I think I’d want to play them.” 

“Why?” asked Tom. 

“Well, because we committed ourselves to the 
date. Durham is right there. We knew what 
Durham was — or at least that’s how I under- 
stand it — before we arranged the game. She 
was just as bad last year as this. So why not 
wait until next season and then refuse to arrange 
a game, giving our reasons then.” 

“But you can’t wait when a principle is at 
stake,” Tom replied. “Revolutions and revolu- 
tionary things are not done cold-bloodedly and 
scientifically.” 

“Sometimes they are,” smiled the senior. “I 
think you’ll find most of the ones that worked 
for lasting good were well worked out. Now, I 
believe in a principle; but I often wonder if the 
231 


The Big Game 

reformers of our day don’t get so excited over it 
that they forget other principles that are just 
as valuable.” 

This might have been construed as a slap at 
Tom and others of the eleven who had acted 
against Durham; but it was quietly spoken, and 
Tom — who was broad-minded in any event — 
knew that the man was merely setting forth some- 
thing that he had worked out in his mind. He 
was about to reply when he heard Meriwether’s 
voice hailing him. The coach was on the veranda 
of the field-house. Yerkes had been the first 
man dressed and Tom had left the house hur- 
riedly to catch up with him. Thus he had missed 
the coach’s request for the team to wait for a 
moment, as he had something to say. As the 
two men returned Meriwether entered the train- 
ing-quarters, and when all the players were as- 
sembled he addressed them. 

“To-morrow’s Saturday, as you know,” he 
said. “The Durham team are coming here and 
expect to take the field. They will be permitted 
to do so. The gates will not be locked, as most 
of you have understood would be the case, and 
the guarantee which we were to pay them will 
be paid by Mr. Leach, the treasurer. I don’t 
know whether they’ll accept it or not; probably 
232 


A Revolution on the Eleven 


not. In any event, I don’t want the varsity 
members to be separated to-morrow. Captain 
King and I have agreed on this. And I don’t 
want any of you at the field. You will therefore 
report at the office of the Athletic Association 
treasurer, Mr. Leach, at 12.30, and I don’t want 
any one to be late. We have several important 
games lying ahead in the immediate future, and 
I don’t want any of you in the mess on the streets 
or at the field. Understand — 12.30, sharp.” As 
all nodded the coach gestured dismissal and the 
members of the team separated. 

“I wonder what the coach wants to shut us 
up for,” growled Harrison. “I wanted to go to 
the field and see the show.” 

“So did I,” Hal Middleton chimed in. “I 
don’t see any reason for being kept away.” 

“Neither do I,” Tom said; “but, as I wouldn’t 
have gone anyway, I don’t care a hang where 
the coach takes us.” 

In the meantime Meriwether and his assistant 
coaches were closeted in the training-quarters 
discussing various points of Durham’s play as 
though the game were really to take place. 


233 


CHAPTER XVII 

The Big Game 

T HE next morning saw October in its mellow- 
est, gentlest mood — vastly different from the 
unrest which filled the minds of Haledon men. 
Professors, at their morning lectures, found even 
the most serious students strangely inattentive, 
and recitations were no less unsatisfactory. Tom 
and “ Doggie” Harrison sauntered down to the 
railway station to watch the arrival of the noon 
train upon which the Durham team was sup- 
posed to arrive. Fully half of the student body 
were there, too, their attitude indicating that 
nothing other than curiosity had brought them 
there. 

When the train puffed into the station there 
was a general surging forward and a craning of 
necks. But the Durham team did not appear. 
There was only the usual influx of parents and 
sisters and other girls down to spend the week- 
end, and a number of alumni who had been lured 
to Haledon by the hectic reports concerning the 
situation that had appeared in the newspapers. 

“ Humph !” chuckled Tom. “I guess Durham 
234 


The Big Game 

was bluffing. I sort of had an idea they would 
not attempt to make themselves obnoxious.” 

“No,” agreed Harrison, “let’s slope up to the 
village and see what’s up. After that it’ll be 
time to report at Mr. Leach’s office. I wonder 
if the coach will keep us cooped up after he hears 
about the Durham crowd not arriving?” 

“Probably not.” Tom turned from the station 
and started for the village. On the way they 
met Parker, the manager of the eleven. He had 
received no word from Durham and had gone to 
the station to extend to the visiting team the 
courtesies of the university. 

“You see,” he said, “we wanted to be as polite 
as possible and leave nothing undone to make 
them feel at home. They were to have anything 
they might want — except, of course, a game with 
the team. I can’t imagine what has become of 
them — unless it was all a bluff.” 

The main street was filled with students, 
alumni, and townspeople whose faces indicated 
disappointment. They had counted upon the 
unusual and apparently it was not to take place. 

“Sold, Tommy,” growled one of Tom’s class- 
mates as he went by. 

“Looks that way,” Tom replied. “But I’m 
just as well satisfied.” 


235 


The Big Game 

“I suppose so,” rejoined the other, speaking 
back over his shoulder. 

When they entered Leach’s offices the eleven 
and all the substitutes were there, lounging on 
the cane settees or slumped down in chairs. Meri- 
wether had not arrived and the treasurer was 
busy at his desk, working over financial matters. 
King was seated by the window, looking out, not 
in a talkative mood. In fact it was rather a silent 
gathering. Five minutes after the hour appointed 
for the meeting the coach bustled in. 

“Fellows,” he said, “the Durham team didn’t 
arrive on the train. I had ordered you to meet 
here because I was going to take you all out of 
town on an automobile ride. Six of the students 
had offered to run their cars for us. But now it 
won’t be necessary. You can go down to the 
training-quarters and get your luncheon. After 
you eat hang around the quarters as I shall want 
practice this afternoon.” 

He glanced at King and then, turning, walked 
out of the room. The football men arose and 
began to make their way to the field-house, some 
in motor-cars, some by bicycles, and some on 
foot. It was the noon hour and the atmosphere 
of thrill and excitement which had been present 
a short while ago no longer existed. 

236 


The Big Game 

The light meal was over and the players were 
arising from the table when Parker rushed in. 

“ Fellows, what do you think? The Durham 
team is here ! They’ve just come into town from 
Stockton by trolley!” 

“ Durham!” The manager was immediately 
surrounded by a group of excited boys clamoring 
for information. 

“Oh, I don’t know much,” he said at length. 
“They’re at the hotel for luncheon.” 

“Gee whiz!” King looked around at his men 
and whistled. “They weren’t going to take any 
chances on the reception at the station, were 
they? What kind of a looking crowd are they, 
Ham ? Or didn’t you see them ?” 

“Yes, I saw them,” Parker answered. “They’re 
a bunch of man-eaters all right. I talked to their 
manager at the hotel. He was a decent sort of 
a chap and doesn’t want any guarantee. He said 
they had come simply to set themselves on 
record.” 

In the meantime news of the arrival of the 
Durham aggregation had spread through the 
college like wild-fire. There was a general trend 
toward the field and every one walked in free, 
as of course no arrangements had been made 
either to sell or take tickets of admission. Within 
237 


The Big Game 

half an hour there must have been four or five 
thousand spectators seated on the lower sections 
of the great concrete tiers. There was an air of 
expectancy, and the Haledon players gathered 
in the training-house were obviously restive. 

From time to time some member of the scrub, 
or student, would hurry into the building bring- 
ing latest news from the gridiron. The under- 
graduates, the players learned, were gathered 
together, in accordance with custom, but were 
strangely silent. Just as the assistant manager 
hurried out of the quarters Meriwether appeared. 
With him was Salsburg, the Durham coach, and 
Jennings, the Durham captain. Jennings was in 
uniform. 

“Fellows,” said Meriwether, “my old friend 
Mike Salsburg here is the coach of Durham, and 
this is Captain Jennings of that team. . . . Mr. 
King, Mr. Salsburg and Mr. Jennings.” Captain 
King shook hands with the two men and then 
drifted back among his fellows. 

“Salsburg asked me if he could say a word 
or two to you fellows,” Meriwether went on, 
“and I told him I was sure you’d have no ob- 
jections.” 

“None at all,” replied King politely. “Go 
ahead, Mr. Salsburg.” 


238 


The Big Game 

The Durham coach was of the wiry, bull-terrier 
type of man and he lost no time in accepting 
King’s invitation. His manner was very con- 
ciliatory. 

“You boys,” he said, “have taken a stand 
which you think is right. I have no kick about 
that. Yet you’ve done Durham an injustice, 
and if you’re the sort of men I think you are — 
the sort of men I used to find on Haledon teams 
when I played for Oxford fifteen years ago — 
you’ll go out there and play football. I know — 
I am sure — you are not afraid of being licked. 
What I mean is, if a team is good enough to lick 
you you’ll take it. Winning or losing, I can see, 
has nothing to do with your attitude. But what 
I want you to do is to act like men and go out 
there and play football.” 

As he finished speaking there was an under- 
tone of comment among the Haledon men, which 
Captain King checked by a gesture of his hand. 

“We all appreciate what you have said, Mr. 
Salsburg, and the spirit in which you have said 
it. But we have gone over the situation and 
have taken our stand. Nothing you can say will 
change us.” 

The Durham coach glanced at Meriwether, 
who stood silent in a corner, his face devoid of 
239 


The Big Game 

expression. Then suddenly he nodded and with- 
out a further word beckoned to Jennings and 
left the field-house. 

“Get on your suits, boys,” said Meriwether 
gruffly. “After the Durham team has made 
all the shadow touchdowns they want we’ll go 
out for practice.” 

The men separated for the locker-room, and 
within fifteen minutes were back in the main 
room dressed for football. As they stood there, 
looking wonderingly at Meriwether, a curious 
throaty yell began to arise from the football- 
field. As they listened they could hear repeated 
Haledon cries. 

“I can’t stand this any longer!” cried King; 
“let’s run over and see what’s up.” He led the 
team to the players’ entrance, every man pro- 
ceeding on a dead run. As they reached the open- 
ing of the passageway which gave on the field 
they saw a strange sight. In front of one goal- 
post, massed on the ten-yard line, were several 
hundred Haledon students. They stretched from 
side-line to side-line. In front of the other goal- 
post a great mob of students were similarly dis- 
posed. In the middle of the field was the Dur- 
ham team, apparently undecided what to do. 

“Fellows!” King’s voice was raised excitedly. 
240 


The Big Game 

“Durham will make no touchdown to-day. Let 
them try it. I wonder what graduate will say 
after this that the old-time Haledon spirit is 
dead?” 

“They’ll all say it. Every one.” All faces 
turned toward “Farmer” Yerkes, who had not 
spoken all day. “They’ll say that some fifteen 
or eighteen hundred Haledon students were re- 
quired to stop the Durham team. It’ll be a by- 
word, a joke for years. We won’t be able to raise 
our heads all season. We’ll be ashamed to have 
it known that we were members of the Haledon 
eleven.” 

Tom Kerry’s voice bore in. 

“Yerkes is right,” he said. “We were standing 
on a principle, but sometimes you’ve got to get 
down to earth and be primitive, I guess. This 
looks to be one of those times. They’ve rigged 
it around so that we are in a position that I can’t 
stand. Who is Durham to make a joke of us?” 
Meriwether, who had been counting upon the 
very fact that his men after all were still boys, 
and who in many ways had created the present 
situation, looked anxiously at the faces of the 
players as Tom swept on. “We can’t let those 
students do our work for us. I can’t, at least. 
They are fighting our fight for us. We’re men; 

241 


The Big Game 

we can fight for ourselves. We’re Haledon men, 
every one of us. We’re clean; we have had our 
house-cleaning and every man here is on the 
Haledon eleven, is in Haledon, because he loves 
the place, because, as Farmer Yerkes said the 
other day, we’d die for it. I know I’m talking 
like a rattlebrain, going back on all I’ve said and 
done; but I can’t help it; something’s pulling 
me. I want to go out there and fight — fight — 
for Haledon.” He paused. “And I’m going if 
I have to go alone.” 

Captain King stepped hastily out of the pas- 
sageway into the clear. 

“Tom won’t go alone!” he cried. “We’ll all 
go out and play, and play hard. We’ve been 
looking forward to the big games in November. 
This is our big game — the biggest we have ever 
played or ever will play. Come on, fellows ! ” 
With this cry he dashed onto the field, the Hale- 
don team stringing behind him. 

Meriwether sprinted up the side-lines, waving 
his arms at the students and calling to them to 
clear the gridiron. 

“The game is going to be played,” he yelled. 
“Everybody off the field.” 

The greatest confusion and uproar followed. 
The spectators cheered, or gave vent to cries of 
242 


The Big Game 

various sorts, while the Haledon students aban- 
doned themselves to transports of enthusiasm 
as they moved slowly from the field to their 
seats. 

Meanwhile the coaches and captains were con- 
ferring in the centre of the field. It was noted 
that King did not shake hands with the rival 
captain as the two came together and that his 
manner was cold and distant throughout the 
colloquy. It seems that the officials who were 
to serve as arbiters of the game had been told 
not to come to Haledon, as there would be no 
contest. But, as it happened, there were a Baliol 
and a Shelburne scout in the stand and neither 
side had any objection to their services. An 
Oxford scout accepted the post of head linesman 
and his assistants were a Haledon and a Dur- 
ham substitute. 

As the two captains were talking Meriwether 
ran back to the side-lines, slapping Yerkes upon 
the shoulder. 

“You are going in on the varsity to-day, 
Farmer,” he said. “Just try to remember what 
you have been taught, and you’ll do well enough. 
Don’t forget you must not use your hands when 
your team has the ball, but that you can use your 
hands when you are defending. Keep your head.” 
243 


The Big Game 

“Oh, I’ll do that, sir.” Yerkes nodded and 
his eyes glowed from under his heavy brows. 

At the moment, King came running in from 
the field with announcement that Durham had 
won the toss and had elected to let Haledon kick 
off against a fairly strong breeze that had begun 
to come up in the afternoon. 

As the elevens disposed themselves for the 
kick-off* it seemed as though a pin, had it fallen 
upon any one of the concrete seats would have 
made a noise like a falling crowbar. The silence 
was oppressive. The Durham men had evidently 
been selected with reference to their brawn and 
muscle. They were an impressive brood, cer- 
tainly. The Haledon players were by no means 
striplings, but they gave the impression of be- 
ing younger; they were the more typical student 
athletes. 

King ran along the line hitting every man upon 
the back, as Tom knelt to adjust the ball for the 
kick-off*. 

“Remember,” cried the captain, “you’re play- 
ing for Haledon and for decent athletics. There’s 
going to be no quitting. Any Haledon man who 
leaves the field to-day is going to be carried off*, 
understand ?” 

The referee was standing forth, his whistle 
at his mouth. 


244 


The Big Game 

“Are you ready, Captain King ? Ready, Cap- 
tain Jennings ?” The shrill sound of the whistle 
was lost in a loud Haledon cheer as Tom advanced 
to the ball and sent it driving down the field. A 
Durham man caught it on his goal-line and darted 
up the left side of the field, interference forming 
for him and the Haledon defense tending in that 
direction. The runner went about ten yards 
and was about to be tackled when he turned sud- 
denly in his tracks and hurled the ball straight 
across the field to a Durham man who had been 
lurking there completely uncovered. He made 
a perfect catch and the new play caught Hale- 
don utterly unprepared. He had reached Hale- 
don’s five-yard line before Hal Middleton tackled 
him and hurled him out of bounds. 

It was a stunning blow to come at the outset 
of the game, more stunning, however, to the 
spectators than to the Haledon players, who 
grew tense with desperate determination as they 
lined up in the shadow of their goal prepared 
to defend the precious few remaining yards. 

The Durham men were grim and unemotional. 
They crouched for the next play as though the 
fact of having great Haledon upon her five-yard 
line was the most ordinary thing in the world. 
The quarter called a signal in a sharp, penetrating 
voice, and the fullback receiving the ball plunged 
245 


The Big Game 

into the centre, preceded by a number of hurtling 
interferences. But Selden, the Haledon pivot 
man, stood firmly, while his supporting guards, 
diving under the interference, spilled it topsy- 
turvy. When the mass was disentangled it was 
seen that the ball had not advanced an inch. 

Again the husky one-hundred-and-ninety-pound 
fullback dived into the line, this time between 
right guard and tackle. But the stalwart defense 
of the Haledon forwards brought the attack to 
nothing. Then suddenly, on a criss-cross play, 
Yerkes was drawn from his position; he left a gap- 
ing hole in his position, which was just what the 
opposing quarterback had expected of this green 
player. But Tom Kerry, who was hovering back 
of the line on the secondary defense, saw the hole 
as quickly as the man with the ball did. With a 
five-yard start he launched himself at the opening, 
meeting the man who carried the ball with a low, 
crashing tackle of fearful force. There was no 
mercy in the tackle and Tom had intended none. 
His shoulder drove into the back’s stomach; he 
went to earth like a shot. The ball dropped from 
his arms but was recovered for a five-yard loss 
by an agile Durham end. Time was taken out 
while the Durham player got his wind and dazed 
senses back. 


246 


The Big Game 

With fourth down and some ten yards to go, 
the teams located at one side the field, there was 
nothing to do but throw a forward pass or to at- 
tempt a trick play. The angle was too great for 
a field goal. Two of the Durham players spread 
out toward the centre of the field, and other de- 
tails of the formation left little doubt that a for- 
ward pass over the goal-line was intended. And, 
indeed, it was a forward pass, but instead of going 
wide the throw was a short, swift throw directly 
over the centre of the line. The play was cor- 
rectly diagnosed, but Hal Middleton, who launched 
himself for the tackle, was straight-armed to one 
side, and before Haledon knew what had occurred 
the Durham players were capering about, cele- 
brating a touchdown. The punt-out was missed 
and so there was no chance to add one point to 
the touchdown by kicking a goal. 

As the Haledon players walked slowly out 
from behind their goal-posts for the new kick-off. 
King moved from player to player, encouraging 
them by word or slap. 

“Remember, Shelburne had us ten to noth- 
ing in the first half last year,” he said. “You 
all know how the game ended. But keep your 
heads; don’t be fooled on elementary tricks.” 

Yerkes turned a cut and swollen face to King. 
247 


The Big Game 

“That tackle who plays opposite me brings 
up his fist every time we charge,” he said. “He’s 
been hammering me every play. I’ve asked him 
not to, but he only curses at me.” 

King shrugged. 

“Well, look out for his fist then. Tell the 
referee what’s happened and maybe he’ll catch 
the mucker.” 

Yerkes nodded and advanced toward the 
referee, but evidently changed his mind, for he 
took his place in the line as Tom prepared for 
another kick-off. This time the ball went over 
the goal-line, and Durham, bringing out to the 
twenty-yard mark, prepared for further assault. 
The team had been well coached in regard to zones 
of play and made no attempt to forward-pass so 
deep in their own territory. The first play was 
a run around left end from kick formation. The 
start of the play was closely followed by a curious 
incident. There came a scream of pain from out 
of the welter of plunging bodies in the line and 
the next instant Yerkes was seen to spring clear 
and make for the runner and his interferers, who 
had just come abreast of his position, still, of 
course, behind the line of scrimmage. Yerkes 
went into the interference with outspread arms, 
running like a motor-truck. Nine pins never 
248 


The Big Game 

tumbled any more cleanly than those Durham 
backs, while Yerkes, seizing the runner, lifted 
him up like a child and, without stopping, carried 
him back of his own goal-line despite the shouts 
of the players and the whistle of the referee, sig- 
nifying that the play had ended. Yerkes deposited 
the hapless back upon the turf and then sat down 
upon him. 

The stands shrieked with mirth and applause. 
Even the officials smiled. Yerkes looked up sur- 
prisedly when the umpire ordered the play back 
to the point where he had first seized the back. 
It was then noticed that the Durham tackle who 
had played opposite Yerkes — the man who had 
been bringing his fist into the Haledon man’s 
face on every charge — still lay upon the ground. 
His shoulder was dislocated and he was dazed, 
evidently from a blow. 

King glanced at the group of Durham men 
around the stricken player and then turned to 
Yerkes. 

“What did you do to him, Farmer?” he asked. 

“Oh, nothing,” was the reply, “except that 
when he brought his fist up on that last play I 
caught it in my hand and gave it a good twist. 
Then I guess perhaps I must have slapped him — • 
with my open palm — as he went down. I hated 
249 


The Big Game 

to do it, captain,” he added, “but he wouldn’t 
listen to plea or argument. A man so unreason- 
able gets me a little mad, I guess.” 

“I guess so.” King turned away, smiling. 

Thereafter Yerkes was the genius of the Hale- 
don line. He ranged about like a Berserk, bowl- 
ing over opponents, opening holes, and in general 
creating as much consternation among opponents 
on his side of the line as a runaway locomotive. 
He didn’t know a great deal of technical football, 
but he was an instinctive player, and his great 
speed and his strength, as well as a spirit almost 
fanatical, were serving to excellent purpose. 

Durham could not gain an inch from her twenty- 
yard line and had to punt — which was what Tom 
was looking for. He caught the ball on his forty- 
yard line and with a sigh of satisfaction sprang 
forward like a polished arrow from an ashen bow. 
It took him only three steps to fall into that won- 
derful undulating antelope stride. Easily the 
greatest open field-runner in intercollegiate ranks, 
he found that the Durham tacklers, hastily shaken 
together and provided with an assortment of 
“get-there-quick” plays, were unable to cope 
with his swift, elusive advance. His wonderful 
change of pace, his faculty of drawing his hips 
to one side or the other and of changing his course 
250 


The Big Game 

by crossing his feet on the dead run, brought 
him to Durham’s ten-yard line before he was 
tackled 

This incident, coupled with the play of Yerkes 
which had deprived Durham of one of her most 
formidable linesmen, gave Haledon immense in- 
spiration. Durham was now beginning to find 
the loose places in her armor. She had eleven 
individuals, joined together, to be sure, in the 
unity of team-play, but without that spirit, that 
stimulus, that steadfastness, which are born of 
love, loyalty, and devotion to an institution. 

Harrison took the ball through Durham’s right 
tackle, Yerkes paving the way like a snow-plough, 
the ball landing on Durham’s five-yard line. Again 
the play on Yerkes’s position was called, but this 
time the big fellow was tripped and went down, 
Harrison on top of him. Tom’s interference was 
spilled on an end run and he gained but a yard. 
It was then, with the ball on Durham’s four- 
yard line, that the end of the quarter was called. 

The teams changed goals when play was re- 
sumed. It was fourth down, the ball in Hal- 
edon’s possession on Durham’s four-yard line. 
Allen signalled the team to fall into forward- 
pass formation and then, as the ball was snapped, 
he took it himself and shot over Durham’s line 
251 


The Big Game 

for a clean touchdown. While the air rang with 
acclaim Tom stepped back and, carefully sighting 
the ball, which Allen held poised on the ground, 
he kicked the goal and gave his university a lead 
of one point, the Haledon players laughing and 
shaking hands as though it were a touchdown 
against Baliol. 

In the second half the difference between two 
teams, one playing for their university as well 
as for themselves, the other actuated by little 
else than a personal desire to win, became ap- 
parent. Durham had a splendid line attack, 
executed with precision and skill, but always at 
the crucial moment something would go wrong. 
The sharp tackling of Haledon would cause a 
ball to be fumbled or there would be holding or 
some other foul, or an error in judgment that 
would offset a great deal of Durham’s good work. 
Thus, with an attack stronger and more varied 
than that of Haledon, which to date had been 
instructed only in fundamentals with a scant 
equipment of simple plays Durham was unable to 
score. 

But, above all, it was the spirit of the Haledon 
men that told; it gave them a strength and an 
abandon which made Meriwether rub his eyes. 
The crash of their tackles could be heard all over 
252 


The Big Game 

the field and a constant chatter crackled among 
the players. 

“Oh, Tommy,” Captain King would cry to 
Kerry, “a beautiful tackle!” Or again — “Pretty 
work, Hal Middleton!” 

Even old Farmer Yerkes began to raise his 
husky voice, and in the meantime the team, solid- 
ified and inspired by a common cause, rose to 
heights that no one close to the team had be- 
lieved possible. 

Great reliance, of course, was placed upon 
Tom’s punting, and he was never in better form. 
Durham’s players had never seen anything of 
the sort. Standing behind his line, Tom would 
send the ball soaring down the field to any de- 
sired point. Not more than once or twice was 
it so placed as to permit the opposing backfield 
man to catch it without effort and upon several 
occasions it went so far away from them that 
they were obliged to turn and pursue it. As Hal- 
edon’s ends, Anderson and Britt, were covering 
kicks beautifully, Durham was frequently forced 
to line up deep in her own territory. Here they 
were obliged to put the ball in play from scrim- 
mage, hardly daring to punt because of the in- 
ability of their tacklers to stop Tom Kerry’s re- 
turns. 


253 


The Big Game 

With the Haledon pressure thus increasing 
Durham became disorganized in the last quarter 
and slowly but surely yielded to a series of end 
runs, Tom carrying the ball, protected by fine 
interference. Play after play opened up side 
gains, until at length, on the fifteen-yard line, 
Tom started for the left end with his interference. 
Allen, the quarter, who had turned his back to 
the line, feigned to give Tom the ball, but in real- 
ity kept it. Then, as the line split apart, Harri- 
son, running straight for a wide gap in centre, 
took the ball and scored another touchdown. 

With the kicking of the goal Durham kicked 
off, and a few seconds later the whistle blew, 
ending the contest. 

Somehow there was not a great deal of cheer- 
ing. It was like the killing of a snake. For sev- 
eral seasons Durham had been notorious for her 
methods in securing athletes. She had left nothing 
undone that she might gain prestige by defeating 
Haledon. And she had failed. Failed at the 
outset of her season. Everything that was to 
come would be an anticlimax. She would meet 
teams from the West and the South and a few 
elevens in her own section who did not care what 
sort of a schedule they had. But her own natural 
rivals, the rivals which were hers by tradition 
254 


The Big Game 

and against which for half a century there had 
been a fine, high-spirited rivalry, were her rivals 
no longer. 

Durham had gone in for wholesale recruiting 
of players. She had this advantage — she had 
beaten her old intercollegiate associates decisively 
year after year and had gradually climbed out 
of their class, although her student population 
was about the same as that of her rivals. She 
had become ambitious and had gone gunning for 
big game. The result was that she occupied no 
position, had no friends and no dear rivals. She 
was neither bird nor fish. Haledon was done 
with her; other universities would treat her sim- 
ilarly another season. Her plight would have 
excited the pity of Tom Kerry and the rest of 
the Haledon team had they not known how richly 
deserved it was. 


255 


CHAPTER XVIII 
The Biggest Game 

C APTAIN KING had spoken of the Durham 
contest as the “big game, ,, and so it proved 
to be. Ethically, perhaps, Haledon would have 
done well to have stood firm and declined to meet 
Durham. But at least the principles which had 
actuated Haledon had received wide publicity, 
and the victory of a team which had faced facts 
and cleaned house over a team of dubious respect- 
ability was used as a moral by many writers next 
day. 

Of the further course of the eleven through 
the season, of the victory over Shelburne and 
the tie game with Baliol, suffice to say that the 
team gained quite sufficient honor for one year 
and that at the end Tom Kerry was elected cap- 
tain for the succeeding year, his senior year at 
Haledon, by a unanimous vote. This was a very 
great honor and a source of immense satisfaction 
to Tom, but above all he prized, after the last 
game had been played, a letter from Doctor 
Winter of Belmore. 


256 


The Biggest Game 

“ Above all,” he wrote, after congratulating 
Tom upon his election as captain, “your fight 
for athletic purity in our colleges and prepara- 
tory schools has been crowned by success greater 
than you know. College faculties throughout 
the country, who have been too long under the 
domination of powerful alumni interests, have 
thrown off the yoke and have taken, or are about 
to take, drastic action. The rigid system of 
scrutinizing all incoming athletes which Haledon 
has adopted — a scrutiny which goes into their 
affairs and their reasons for entering the univer- 
sity — will, I am credibly informed, be adopted 
by Shelburne and Baliol. The theory held by 
graduates that simply because a boy is able to 
contribute to the athletic renown of a university 
he should benefit financially is bound to be cast 
overboard at our self-respecting seats of learning, 
while even the minor system of free board, free 
tuition, and free text-books will also be eliminated 
in increasing degree. This will be largely due to 
you and those like you, not only at Haledon but 
elsewhere, who have been working from the in- 
side. I wonder if you know what your work has 
meant to you — how well known you are, not 
only as a great athlete but a boy of sterling prin- 
ciples, who is willing to stand up for them; not 


The Big Game 

only stand up for them, but to fight successfully 
in their behalf? 

“I don’t know what your plans are, imme- 
diately following your graduation a year hence. 
But I am now going to ask you to hold in your 
mind the offer to come to Belmore for a year or 
two after you are graduated and take in this 
school some work among our boys that is vitally 
necessary.” 

Tom handed this letter to Hal Middleton and 
looked out the window into the cold November 
night. 

“It looks like a good call, don’t you think?” 
he asked. 

“Yes,” said Hal, “but there may be a prior 
call; anyway, we’ve got senior year to pass in 
Haledon yet.” 

“Thank God for that!” Tom said. Then the 
two boys were silent. 

“I wonder,” said Hal at length. 

Tom looked at him. 

“I know what you’re thinking of, boy.” 

“Yes — over there.” Hal nodded solemnly to 
the eastward. “We’ve talked about the ‘big 
game’ for two years now. What about the big- 
gest game ?” 

“War ?” asked Tom. And then as Hal nodded 
258 


The Biggest Game 

he went on: “ Don’t you suppose that those of 
us who have played in the big game will be in 
the biggest game — if it comes off — as soon as the 
whistle sounds? Of course we will. You know 
and I know that at bottom that’s all we’ve been 
thinking about for weeks. We make our plans 
for the future, but after all — ” Tom shrugged. 

“I know.” Hal looked around at the familiar 
elms, the velvet sward of the campus, the lazy 
groups sauntering to and fro, the serene sunlight 
lying upon tower and roof and ivied wall. Tom 
followed his gaze and then the two looked at each 
other a moment. 

Then suddenly the two linked arms and walked 
slowly beneath the elms, not speaking. 


259 








































































I 








